But why alas! to thee complain!
To thee — unconscious of my pain!
Soon shalt THOU cease to mourn thy lot severe,
And hail the dawning of a happier year:
The genial warmth of joy-renewing spring
Again shall plume thy shatter'd wing;
Again thy little heart shall transport prove,
Again shall slow thy notes responsive to thy love:
But O for ME in vain may seasons roll,
Nought can dry up the fountain of my tears,
Deploring still the COMFORT OF MY SOUL,
I count my sorrows by encreasing years.