THE bed of flowers <br /> <br />Loosens amain, <br />The beauteous snowdrops <br /> <br />Droop o'er the plain. <br />The crocus opens <br /> <br />Its glowing bud, <br />Like emeralds others, <br /> <br />Others, like blood. <br />With saucy gesture <br /> <br />Primroses flare, <br />And roguish violets, <br /> <br />Hidden with care; <br />And whatsoever <br /> <br />There stirs and strives, <br />The Spring's contented, <br /> <br />If works and thrives. <br /> <br />'Mongst all the blossoms <br /> <br />That fairest are, <br />My sweetheart's sweetness <br /> <br />Is sweetest far; <br />Upon me ever <br /> <br />Her glances light, <br />My song they waken, <br /> <br />My words make bright, <br />An ever open <br /> <br />And blooming mind, <br />In sport, unsullied, <br /> <br />In earnest, kind. <br />Though roses and lilies <br /> <br />By Summer are brought, <br />Against my sweetheart <br /> <br />Prevails he nought.<br /><br />Johann Wolfgang von Goethe<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/next-year-s-spring/
