"Return, my sun, return! and springtide sweet, Which evermore I long to see, bring back;
Dislodge the snows and ice with genial hear;
And clear my mind, so clouded o'er and black."
As Philomel, or Progne, with the meat Returning, which her famished younglings lack, Mourns o'er an empty nest, or as the dove Laments himself at having lost is love;