BOOK I.

Well dost thou, Love, thy solemn Feast to hold In vestal February; Not rather choosing out some rosy day From the rich coronet of the coming May,

When all things meet to marry! O, quick, praevernal Power That signall'st punctual through the sleepy mould The Snowdrop's time to flower,

Fair as the rash oath of virginity Which is first-love's first cry; O, Baby Spring, That flutter'st sudden‘ neath the breast of Earth

A month before the birth; Whence is the peaceful poignancy, The joy contrite, Sadder than sorrow, sweeter than delight,

That burthens now the breath of everything, Though each one sighs as if to each alone The cherish'd pang were known? At dusk of dawn, on his dark spray apart,

With it the Blackbird breaks the young Day's heart; In evening's hush About it talks the heavenly-minded Thrush; The hill with like remorse

Smiles to the Sun's smile in his westering course; The fisher's drooping skiff In yonder sheltering bay; The choughs that call about the shining cliff;

The children, noisy in the setting ray; Own the sweet season, each thing as it may; Thoughts of strange kindness and forgotten peace In me increase;

And tears arise Within my happy, happy Mistress’ eyes, And, lo, her lips, averted from my kiss, Ask from Love's bounty, ah, much more than bliss!

Is't the sequester'd and exceeding sweet Of dear Desire electing his defeat? Is't the waked Earth now to yon purpling cope Uttering first-love's first cry,

Vainly renouncing, with a Seraph's sigh, Love's natural hope? Fair-meaning Earth, foredoom'd to perjury! Behold, all-amorous May,

With roses heap'd upon her laughing brows, Avoids thee of thy vows! Were it for thee, with her warm bosom near, To abide the sharpness of the Seraph's sphere?

Forget thy foolish words; Go to her summons gay, Thy heart with dead, wing'd Innocencies fill'd, Ev'n as a nest with birds

After the old ones by the hawk are kill'd. Well dost thou, Love, to celebrate The noon of thy soft ecstasy, Or e'er it be too late,

Or e'er the Snowdrop die!