To Mary

Frown on, ye dark and angry clouds;
And, Winter, blow that blast again,
That calls thy wrathful host to pour
Their fury on the wasted plain.

'Tis thus I choose my way to win
To her whose love my bosom warms;
And brighter seems the prize I seek
Seen through the gloom of clouds and storms.

Let colder lovers shrink from these,
And calmly wait for peaceful skies;
Be mine, through toil and pain to win
The beam of Mary's gladdened eyes.

Perhaps she'll value more my love,
Perhaps give more of her's to me,
Perhaps may greet me with a smile
More sweet, if smile more sweet can be.

O! Mary, could'st thou know this heart,
Could words or deeds its truth declare,
'T would higher raise love's flame in thine,
Or light it, if it be not there.
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