SONNET XXXI. WHAT is young Passion but a gusty breeze Eyes that can smile may weep just when they please. Hid from the moment's venom and its balm, Nor feels the joy of morn, nor evening calm: SONNET XXXII. FROM PETRARCA. "Solo e pensoso i piu deserti campi.” gone LONELY and pensive o'er the lonely strand, And how I inly waste like smouldering brand; SONNET XXXIII. THE vale of Tempe had in vain been fair, If heaven-born phantasy no more required, The mounting soul must heavenward prune her wings. SONNET XXXIV. TO A LOFTY BEAUTY, FROM HER POOR KINSMAN. FAIR maid, had I not heard thy baby cries, Old times unqueen thee, and old loves endear thee. |