Page:Poems and extracts - Wordsworth.djvu/43

 Our sighs are then but vernal air; But April drops our tears, Which swiftly passing, all grows fair, Whilst beauty compensates our care, And youth each vapour clears.

But O! too soon alas, we climb; Scarce feeling we ascend The gently-rising hill of Time, From whence with grief we see that prime, And all its sweetness end.

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