by William Drummond
Sweet Spring, thou com'st with all thy goodly train,
Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with flow'rs,
The zephyrs curl the green locks of the plain,
The clouds for joy in pearls weep down their show'rs.
Sweet spring, thou com'st,- but ah! my pleasant hours
And happy days with thee come not again;
The sad memorials only of my pain
Do with thee come, which turn my sweets in sours.
Thou art the same which still thou wert before,
Delicious, lusty, amiable, fair;
But she whose breath embalm'd thy wholesome air,
Is gone; nor gold nor gems can her restore.
Neglected virtue, seasons go and come,
While thine forgot lie closed in a tomb.
Last updated January 14, 2019