While crystal showers from weeping clouds descend,
Enjoy the presence of thy tuneful friend:
Now, while the wines are brought, the sofa’s laid,
Be gay: too soon the flowers of spring will fade!
The plants no more are dried, the meadow dead;
No more the rose-bud hangs her pensive head;
The shrubs revive in valleys, mead, and bowers,
And every stalk is garland’d with flowers;
In silken robes each hillock stands arrayed—
Be gay: too soon the flowers of spring will fade!