By JH Sayyar
O gentle spring where first did blossom true,
The tender buds of passion's shy delight,
Thy breath awoke my heart with morning dew,
And turned my winter soul to fields of light
Thou art the brook where longing learns to sing,
A mirror soft where dreams in secret play,
Each glance a bloom, each touch a my wing,
That stirs the hush of night into the day.
No thorns wound while thou hold me near,
For in thy warmth all sorrow ceased to grow.
The world was nothing — so bright, so clear
And time stood still beneath thy golden glow.
Yet seasons turn, though vows like stone were cast;
Sweet spring of love, why thou must fade so fast