Flowers are fresh, and bushes green,
Cheerily the linnets sing;
Winds are soft, and skies serene;
Time, however, soon shall throw,
Winter’s snow,
O’er the buxom breast of spring!
Hope that buds in lover’s heart,
Lives not through the scorn of years;
Time makes love itself depart;
Time and scorn congeal the mind—
Looks unkind—
Freeze affection’s warmest tears.
Time shall make the bushes green;
Time dissolve the winter snow;
Winds be soft, and skies serene;
Linnets sing their wonted strain.
But again,
Blighted love shall never blow!
_Translated by_ VISCOUNT STRANGFORD. LUIS DE CAMÕENS, 1524–1579.
XII.
=The Forest.=