That a lover would love to see.
Hers are the showers—but half the flowers
Hang back for her sister's call.
Amongst the seasons, for divers reasons,
The Spring is the worst of all.
I dread the Summer, the next new-comer;.
Because of her changeful forms:
She merits my praise for her cloudless days,
But my wrath for her fearful storms.
There are flames in her love from the fires above,