William Lisle Bowles (Уильям Лайл Боулз)
Sonnet 13. O Time!
O Time! who know'st a lenient hand to lay Softest on sorrow's wound, and slowly thence, (Lulling to sad repose the weary sense) Stealest the long-forgotten pan away; On Thee I rest my only hope at last, And think, when thou hast dried the bitter tear That flows in vain o'er all my soul held dear, I may look back on many a sorrow pall, And meet life's peaceful evening with a smile— As some poor bird, at day's departing hour. Sings in the sunbeam, of the transient shower Forgetful, tho' its wings are wet the while:— Yet ah! how much must that poor heart endure, Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure!
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