Текст оригинала на английском языке
Sonnet 2. The Future, and its gifts, alone we prize
The Future, and its gifts, alone we prize, Few joys the Present brings, and those alloy'd; Th' expected fulness leaves an aching void; But Hope stands by, and lifts her sunny eyes That gild the days to come.—She still relies The Phantom Happiness not thus shall glide Always from life.—Alas!—yet ill betide Austere Experience, when she coldly tries In distant roses to discern the thorn! Ah! is it wise to anticipate our pain? Arriv'd, it then is soon enough to mourn. Nor call the dear Consoler false and vain, When yet again, shining through april-tears, Those fair enlight'ning eyes beam on advancing Years.
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