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Poem by Mary Robinson
”Yes, LAURA, yes, pure as the virgin snow’s ”That on the bosom of the whirlwind move,, ”For thee my faithful endless passion glows.” - LEONARDO TO LAURA. COLD blows the wind upon the mountain’s brow; In murmuring cadence wave the leafless woods; The feath’ry tribe mope on the frozen bough, And icy fetters hold the silent floods; But endless spring the POET’S 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 lib’ral soul! To me the limped brook, the painted mead, The crimson dawn, the twilight’s purple close; The mirthful dance, the shepherd’s 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.
Mary Robinson's other poems:
English Poetry. E-mail firstname.lastname@example.org