When April with her wild blue eye <br />Comes dancing over the grass, <br />And all the crimson buds so shy <br />Peep out to see her pass; <br />As lightly she loosens her showery locks <br />And flutters her rainy wings; <br />Laughingly stoops <br />To the glass of the stream, <br />And loosens and loops <br />Her hair by the gleam, <br />While all the young villagers blithe as the flocks <br />Go frolicking round in rings; - <br />Then Winter, he who tamed the fly, <br />Turns on his back and prepares to die, <br />For he cannot live longer under the sky. <br /> <br />Down the valleys glittering green, <br />Down from the hills in snowy rills, <br />He melts between the border sheen <br />And leaps the flowery verges! <br />He cannot choose but brighten their hues, <br />And tho' he would creep, he fain must leap, <br />For the quick Spring spirit urges. <br />Down the vale and down the dale <br />He leaps and lights, till his moments fail, <br />Buried in blossoms red and pale, <br />While the sweet birds sing his dirges! <br /> <br />O Winter! I'd live that life of thine, <br />With a frosty brow and an icicle tongue, <br />And never a song my whole life long, - <br />Were such delicious burial mine! <br />To die and be buried, and so remain <br />A wandering brook in April's train, <br />Fixing my dying eyes for aye <br />On the dawning brows of maiden May.<br /><br />George Meredith<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-death-of-winter/
