The Spring

 Now that the winter's gone, the earth hath lost 
Her snow-white robes, and now no more the frost 
Candies the grass, or casts 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; wakes in hollow tree 
The drowsy cuckoo and the humble-bee.
 
Now do a choir of chirping minstrels bring 
In triumph to the world the youthful spring.
 
The valleys, hills, and woods in rich array 
Welcome the coming of the long'd-for May.
 
Now all things smile; only my love doth lour; 
Nor hath the scalding noonday sun the power 
To melt that marble ice, which still doth hold 
Her heart congeal'd, and makes her pity cold.
 
The ox, which lately did for shelter fly 
Into the stall, doth now securely lie 
In open fields; and love no more is made 
By the fireside, but in the cooler shade 
Amyntas now doth with his Chloris sleep 
Under a sycamore, and all things keep 
Time with the season; only she doth carry 
June in her eyes, in her heart January.

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