SONNETS
I DESPONDING Father! mark this altered bough, So beautiful of late, with sunshine warmed, Or moist with dews; what more unsightly now, Its blossoms shrivelled, and its fruit, if formed, Invisible? yet Spring her genial brow Knits not o’er that discolouring and decay As false to expectation. Nor fret thou At like unlovely process in the May Of human life: a Stripling’s graces blow, Fade and are shed, that from their timely fall 10 (Misdeem it not a cankerous change) may grow Rich mellow bearings, that for thanks shall call: In all men, sinful is it to be slow To hope–in Parents, sinful above all. 1835.