Forest and field are dreary and bare
Where the sweet voices of summer once were,
Yet by the road where I see maiden fair
Tossing the ball, the birds' song is there.
and Spring and Women:
When flowers through the grass begin to spring
As though to greet with smiles the sun's bright rays,
On some May morning, and in joyous measure,
Small songbirds make the dewy forest ring
With a sweet chorus of sweet roundelays,