SWEET Spring, thou turn'st with all thy goodly train, <br />Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with flow'rs: <br />The zephyrs curl the green locks of the plain, <br />The clouds for joy in pearls weep down their show'rs. <br />Thou turn'st, sweet youth, but ah! my pleasant hours <br />And happy days with thee come not again; <br />The sad memorials only of my pain <br />Do with thee turn, which turn my sweets in sours. <br />Thou art the same which still thou wast before, <br />Delicious, wanton, amiable, fair; <br />But she, whose breath embalm'd thy wholesome air, <br />Is gone--nor gold nor gems her can restore. <br /> Neglected virtue, seasons go and come, <br /> While thine forgot lie closed in a tomb.<br /><br />William Drummond (of Hawthornden)<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/spring-bereaved-2-2/
