(Mary Robinson)

To Leonardo

Yes, LAURA, yes, pure as the virgin snows 
That on the bosom of the whirlwind move,,
For thee my faithful endless passion glows. 


COLD blows the wind upon the mountains brow;
In murmuring cadence wave the leafless woods;
The feathry tribe mope on the frozen bough,
And icy fetters hold the silent floods;
But endless spring the POETS breast shall prove,
Whose GENIUS kindles at the torch of LOVE. 

For HIM, unfading, blooms the fertile mind,
The current of the heart for ever flows;
Fearless His bosom braves the wintry wind,
While thro each nerve, eternal summer glows;
In vain would chilling apathy controul,
The lambent fire that warms the libral soul! 

To me the limped brook, the painted mead,
The crimson dawn, the twilights purple close;
The mirthful dance, the shepherds tuneful reed,
The musky fragrance of the opening rose;
To me, alas! all pleasures senseless prove,
Save the sweet converse of the FRIEND I love.

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