Sonnet Sunday

To Her Young Friend by Caroline Symmons

No moon now blushes on the enamoured sight;
No genial sun now warms the torpid lay
Since February sternly checked his ray
When Lucy’s eyes first beamed their azure light.
What though no vernal flowers my hand invite
To crop their fragrance for your natal day;
Lucy, for you the snowdrop and the bay
Shall blend the unfading green and modest white.
Though on your natal day with aspect bleak
Stern winter frown, in icy garments dressed,
Still may the rosy summer robe your cheek
And the green spring still bud within your breast:
Till, the world fading on your closing eyes,
You find a golden autumn in the skies. 


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