THE bed of flowersLoosens amain, The beauteous snowdropsDroop o'er the plain.
The crocus opensIts glowing bud, Like emeralds others,Others, like blood.
With saucy gesturePrimroses flare, And roguish violets,Hidden with care;And whatsoeverThere stirs and strives, The Spring's contented,If works and thrives.
'Mongst all the blossomsThat fairest are, My sweetheart's sweetnessIs sweetest far;Upon me everHer glances light, My song they waken,My words make bright, An ever openAnd blooming mind, In sport, unsullied,In earnest, kind.
Though roses and liliesBy Summer are brought, Against my sweetheartPrevails he nought.
1816.
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