SONG
.
Written
in
Winter
1745.
By
the
Same
.
I.
THE
sun
,
his
gladsome
beams
withdrawn
,
The
hills
all
white
with
snow
,
Leave
me
dejected
and
forlorn
!
Who
can
describe
my
woe
?
But
not
the
sun's
warm
beams
could
cheer
.
Nor
hills
,
tho'
e'er
so
green
,
Unless
my
Damon
should
appear
,
To
beautify
the
scene
.
II
.
The
frozen
brooks
and
pathless
vales
,
Disjoin
my
love
and
me
!
The
pining
bird
his
fate
bewails
On
yonder
leafless
tree
!
But
what
to
me
are
birds
or
brooks
Or
any
joy
that's
near
?
Heavy
the
lute
,
and
dull
the
books
,
While
Damon
is
not
here
!
III
.
The
Laplander
,
who
,
half
the
year
,
Is
wrapt
in
shades
of
night
,
Mourns
not
,
like
me
,
his
winter
drear
;
Nor
wishes
more
for
light
.
But
what
were
light
without
my
love
,
Or
objects
e'er
so
fine
?
The
flowery
meadow
,
field
,
of
grove
,
If
Damon
be
not
mine
?
IV
.
Each
moment
,
from
my
dear
away
,
Is
a
long
age
of
pain
;
Fly
swift
,
ye
hours
,
be
calm
the
day
,
That
brings
my
love
again
!
O
haste
and
bring
him
to
my
arms
;
Nor
let
us
ever
part
:
My
breast
shall
beat
no
more
alarms
,
When
I
secure
his
heart
.