And yet, alas! but now my spring begun,
And yet, alas! it is already done.
"You naked trees, whose shady leaves are lost,
Wherein the birds were wont to build their bower,
And now are cloth'd with moss and hoary frost,
Instead of blossoms, wherewith your buds did flower;
I see your tears that from your boughs do rain,
Whose drops in dreary icicles remain.
"All so my lustful leaf is dry and sere,
My timely buds with wailing all are wasted;