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Poem	SONNET LXXIX. Quella fenestra, ove l' un sol si vede. RECOLLECTIONS OF LOVE. That window where my sun is often seenRefulgent, and the world's at morning's hours;And that, where Boreas blows, when winter lowers,And the short days reveal a clouded scene;That bench of stone where, with a pensive mien,My Laura sits, forgetting beauty's powers;Haunts where her shadow strikes the walls or flowers,And her feet press the paths or herbage green:The place where Love assail'd me with success;And spring, the fatal time that, first observed,[Pg 96]Revives the keen remembrance every year;With looks and words, that o'er me have preservedA power no length of time can render less,Call to my eyes the sadly-soothing tear. Penn. That window where my sun is ever seen,Dazzling and bright, and Nature's at the none;And that where still, when Boreas rude has blownIn the short days, the air thrills cold and keen:The stone where, at high noon, her seat has been,Pensive and parleying with herself alone:Haunts where her bright form has its shadow thrown,Or trod her fairy foot the carpet green:The cruel spot where first Love spoil'd my rest,And the new season which, from year to year,Opes, on this day, the old wound in my breast:The seraph face, the sweet words, chaste and dear,Which in my suffering heart are deep impress'd,All melt my fond eyes to the frequent tear. Macgregor.
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