The Spring

Now that the winter's gone, the earth hath lost     Her snow-white robes, and now no more the frost     Candies the grass, or casts an icy cream     Upon the silver lake or crystal stream;     But the warm sun thaws the benumbed earth,     And makes it tender; gives a sacred birth     To the dead swallow; wakes in hollow tree     The drowsy cuckoo, and the humble-bee.     Now do a choir of chirping minstrels bring     In triumph to the world the youthful Spring.     The valleys, hills, and woods in rich array     Welcome the coming of the long'd-for May.     Now all things smile, only my love doth lour;     Nor hath the scalding noonday sun the power     To melt that marble ice, which still doth hold     Her heart congeal'd, and makes her pity cold.     The ox, which lately did for shelter fly     Into the stall, doth now securely lie     In open fields; and love no more is made     By the fireside, but in the cooler shade     Amyntas now doth with his Chloris sleep     Under a sycamore, and all things keep     Time with the season; only she doth carry     June in her eyes, in her heart January.