WHEN winter covering all the ground Hides every sign of Spring, sir. However you may look around, Pray what will then you sing, sir? The Spring was here last year I know, And many bards did flute, sir; I shall not fear a little snow Forbid me from my lute, sir. If words grow dull and rhymes grow rare, I'll sing of Spring's farewell, sir. For every season steals an air, Which has a Springtime smell, sir. But if upon the other side, With passionate longing burning, Will seek the half unjeweled tide, And sing of Spring's returning. |