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Sweet Spring, full of sweet dayes and roses, A box where sweets compacted lie, My musick shows ye have your closes, And all must die.

I sing of brooks, of blossoms, birds, and bowers: Of April, May, of June, and July flowers. I sing of Maypoles, Hock-carts, wassails, wakes, Of bridegrooms, brides, and of their bridal cakes.

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now Is hung with bloom along the bough.

For surely in the blind deep-buried roots Of all men's souls to-day A secret quiver shoots.

They know who keep a broken tryst, Till something from the Spring be missed We have not truly known the Spring.