You will not love me, sweet.
When this fair year is past;
Or love now at my feet
At others’ feet be cast.
You will not love me, sweet,
When this fair year is past.
Now‘ tis the Springtide, dear,
The crocus cups hold flame
Brimmed to the pregnant year.
Who crimsons as with shame.
Now‘ tis the Springtide, dear,
The crocus cups hold flame.
Ah, heart, the Summer's queen,
At her brown throat one rose;
The poppies now are seen
With seed-pods thrust in rows.
Dear heart, the Summer's queen,
At her brown throat one rose.
Now Autumn reigns, a prince
Fierce, gipsy-dark; live gold
Weighs down the fruited quince,
The last chilled violet's told.
The Autumn reigns, a prince,
A despot crowned with gold.
Alas! rude Winter's king,
Snow-driven from chin to head;
No wild birds pipe and sing,
The wild winds sing instead.
Ah me! rude Winter's king,
Snow-driven from chin to head.
Weep now, you once who smiled,
Sweet hope that had few fears!
And this the end, my child!—
Thyself, my shame and tears!
Weep now, you once who smiled,
Sweet hope, that had few fears!