XVI

Grief made the young Spring wild, and she threw down
Her kindling buds, as if she Autumn were,
And will no more reply to winds or fountains,
Or amorous birds perch’d on the young green spray,
Or herdsman’s horn, or bell at closing day;
Since she can mimic not his lips, more dear
Than those for whose disdain she pin’d away
Into a shadow of all sound: a drear
Murmur, between their songs, is all the woodmen hear.

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