IDLE Winter's colde Nowe at last is spent; Blithesome Sprynge beholde Full of ravishment. Earth is fledged with greene Full of buds aswaye; Leafage maykes a screene In the woodlande waye. Lighte of foot, the girl, She no slug-a-bed, Ere the rose unfurl, Plucks its drowsy head; Soe she comelier seeme With the bud on breast, Or the rose she deem For her lover best, In his hande toe tayke As a pledge of troth, And with kissynge slake Love that's never loth. Listen from the pale, Shepherd's pipe that shrill Makes the nightyngale Sweeter sorrowe spill. See the waves that flowe Crispéd in the brooks, Trees with greene aglowe In their glassy looks. Nowe the sea is soft, Stay'd and smooth the wind Makes the sailes to waft Vessels untoe Ind. Nowe have all birdes sweet Song with voices suave, Larks above the wheat Swannes upon the wave; Swallowes round the roof, Nightyngales that nest In the woods aloof, Synge nor ever rest. Sorrowe and content Of my love I'll synge, An his flame be spent Or still wantonynge. Why then should I quell Songs that over-brim When all thynges up-well With the season's whim? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE RUINES OF TIME by EDMUND SPENSER LYSISTRATA: HOW THE WOMEN WILL STOP WAR by ARISTOPHANES ADDRESS TO A STEAM-VESSEL by JOANNA BAILLIE THE PRINCE OF PEACE by EDWARD HENRY BICKERSTETH LOVE MAKES THE BEST POETS; AN IDYLLIUM by BION BANKING UP VERMONT HOUSES by DANIEL LEAVENS CADY THE ENCREASE by ABRAHAM COWLEY |