The swallows in their torpid state <br />Compose their useless wing, <br />And bees in hives as idly wait <br />The call of early spring. <br /> <br />The keenest frost that binds the stream, <br />The wildest wind that blows, <br />Are neither felt nor fear'd by them, <br />Secure of their repose. <br /> <br />But man, all feeling and awake, <br />The gloomy scene surveys; <br />With present ills his heart must ache, <br />And pant for brighter days. <br /> <br />Old winter, halting o'er the mead, <br />Bids me and Mary mourn; <br />But lovely spring peeps o'er his head, <br />And whispers your return. <br /> <br />Then April, with her sister May, <br />Shall chase him from the bow'rs, <br />And weave fresh garlands ev'ry day, <br />To crown the smiling hours. <br /> <br />And, if a tear, that speaks regret <br />Of happier times, appear, <br />A glimpse of joy, that we have met, <br />Shall shine, and dry the tear.<br /><br />William Cowper<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-the-rev-mr-newton-an-invitation-into-the-country/
