Alas! the winds do moan, the boughs do weep,
For Time hath caught them in his ruthless snare;
But Nature’s voice, through sorrow’s tear-stained sleep,
Still sings of joy beyond her dark despair.

Let not the heart be frail beneath the storm;
For every tempest brings the sun anew;
In Nature’s muse, find courage, strength, and warm
A world of beauty stemming from your view.

• Charlotte Smith