Bud doth the rose and daisy, winter done,
But we, once dead, do no more see the sun!
What fair is wrought
Falls in the prime, and passeth like a thought.
SONNET.—SPRING.
Sweet Spring, thou com'st with all thy goodly train,—
Thy head with flame, thy mantle bright with flowers:
The zephyrs curl the green locks of the plain,—
The clouds for joy in pearls weep down their showers;—
Sweet Spring, thou com'st—but ah! my pleasant hours,