The Spring

Now that the winter's gone, the earth has lost

Her snow-white robes, and now no more frost

Candies the grass, or cast an icy cream

Upon the silver lake or crystal stream

But the warm sun thaws the benumbed earth,

And makes it tender; gives a sacred birth.

To the dead swallow, who wakes in a hollow tree

The drowsy cuckoo and the humble bee.

Now, do a choir of chirping minstrels bring

In a triumph for the world, the youthful spring.

The valleys, hills, and woods in a rich array

Welcome to the coming of the long'd-for May.

Now all things smile, only my love doth lour;

Nor has the scalding noonday sun the power

To melt that marble ice, which still holds

Her heart congeals and makes her pity cold.

The ox, which lately did shelter fly

Into the stall, doth now securely lie

In open fields; love no more is made

By the fireside, but in the cooler shade

Amyntas now doth with his Chloris sleep.

Under a sycamore, all things keep

Time with the season; only she does carry

June in her eyes, in her heart January.