Sonnet 55, Modern Man

Modern man is constantly through sorrow,
When again what he has lost has been found;
Is there a place for somewhere tomorrow,
Where a searching heart is not strictly bound?
Of any but from what it starts to assume,
That ever since then has shown its promise;
Like the river wild and the fairest bloom,
Which in young spring returns to summer bliss.
Silent mornings that have been satisfied,
When the winter was still so full of snow;
All past memories tried to be beautified,
When your heart from these hours gave an echo.
The lost is lost like the wind in the trees,
Alone on their road of absorbencies.