Again the wood, and long-withdrawing vale,
In many a tint of tender green are drest,
Where the young leaves unfolding, scarce conceal
Beneath their early shade, the half-form’d nest
Of finch or wood-lark; and the primrose pale,
And lavish cowslip, wildly scatter’d round,
Give their sweet spirits to the sighing gale.
Ah! Season of delight! -------could aught be found
To soothe awhile the tortur’d bosom’s pain,
Of Sorrow’s rankling shaft to cure the wound,
And bring life’s first delusions once again,
‘Twere surely met in thee! -------thy prospect fair,
They sounds of harmony, thy balmy air,
Have power to cure all sadness -------but despair.
- Charlotte Smith
She wrote this from debtor’s prison with her husband and children.