That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him.
Yet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odour and in hue
Could make me any summer's story tell....
Yet seem'd it winter still....
(Sonnet 98.)
Or compare again the cypresses in Theocritus sole witnesses of secret love; or Walther's
One little birdie who never will tell,
with
These blue-veined violets whereon we lean