The soote season, that bud and bloom forth brings With green hath clad the hill and eke the vale; The nightingale with feathers new she sings; And turtle to her make hath told her tale. Summer is come, for every spray now springs; The hart hath hung his old head on the pale; The buck in brake his winter coat he flings; The fishes flete with new repairèd scale; The adder all her slough away she slings; The swift swalllow pursueth the flies small; The busy bee her honey now she mings; Winter is worn that was the flowers' bale. And thus I see among these pleasant things Each care decays, and yet my sorrow springs.
This poem is in the public domain.