Sonnet ("Scarce has it blossomed...")
Is forced to feel the storm's destroying power —
Scarce has the sunlight quivered on the stream
Before a black cloud hides that beauteous beam —
Each Iris made of rain with many a ray.
Even as you gaze upon it, melts away —
And Hope — ah! heavenly Hope o'er cheated hearts
But flings its hues, then faithlessly departs. —
Oft have I looked upon the morning's red.
But like a passing thought it quickly fled —
Yet fleeter than that tinge, or rainbow hues.
Or fancies brought by wildest Poet's Muse,
My aspirations mounted, but in vain —
They fell like wounded birds to earth again.