Sweet Spring, thou com’st with all thy goodly train,
Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with flow’rs,
The zephyrs curl the green locks of the plain,
The clouds for joy in pearls weep down their show’rs.
Sweet Spring, thou com’st—but, ah! my pleasant hours
And happy days with thee come not again;
The sad memorials only of my pain
Do with thee come, which turns my sweets to sours.
Thou art the same which still thou wert before,
Delicious, lusty, amiable, fair;