Spring Bereaved Ii
By William Henry Drummond
Sweet Spring, thou turnst with all thy goodly train,
Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with flowrs:
The zephyrs curl the green locks of the plain,
The clouds for joy in pearls weep down their showrs.
Thou turnst, sweet youth, but ah! my pleasant hours
And happy days with thee come not again;
The sad memorials only of my pain
Do with thee turn, which turn my sweets in sours.
Thou art the same which still thou wast before,
Delicious, wanton, amiable, fair;
But she, whose breath embalmd thy wholesome air,
Is gone, nor gold nor gems her can restore.
Neglected virtue, seasons go and come,