The soote season, that bud and bloom forth brings, <br />With green hath clad the hill and eke the vale; <br />The nightingale with feathers new she sings, <br />The turtle to her make hath told her tale. <br />Summer is come, for every spray now springs, <br />The hart hath hung his old head on the pale, <br />The buck in brake his winter coat he flings, <br />The fishes float with new repaired scale, <br />The adder all her slough away she slings, <br />The swift swallow pursueth the flyës smale, <br />The busy bee her honey now she mings-- <br />Winter is worn that was the flowers' bale. <br />And thus I see, among these pleasant things <br />Each care decays, and yet my sorrow springs.<br /><br />Henry Howard<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-soote-season/
