SORROW, quit me for a while!
⁠Wintry days are over;
Hope again, with April smile,
⁠Violet sows and clover.

Pleasure follows in her path,
⁠Love itself flies after,
And the brook a music hath
⁠Sweet as childhood's laughter.

Not a bird upon the bough
⁠Can repress its rapture,
Not a bud that blossoms now
⁠But doth beauty capture. . . .

Sorrow, thou art Winter's mate,
⁠Spring cannot regret thee;
Yet, ah, yet—my friend of late—
⁠I shall not forget thee!