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Thomas Carew - The Spring
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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.
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