XVIII

       Ah, woe is me! Winter is come and gone,
       But grief returns with the revolving year;
       The airs and streams renew their joyous tone;
       The ants, the bees, the swallows reappear;
       Fresh leaves and flowers deck the dead Seasons’ bier;
       The amorous birds now pair in every brake,
       And build their mossy homes in field and brere;
       And the green lizard, and the golden snake,
Like unimprison’d flames, out of their trance awake.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s