IN vain the sprightly sun renews his course, <br />Climbs up th' ascending signs and leads the day, <br />While long embattled clouds repel his force, <br />And lazy vapours choak the golden ray. <br /> <br />In vain the spring proclaims the new-born year; <br />No flowers beneath her lingering footsteps spring, <br />No rosy garland binds her flowing hair, <br />And in her train no feather'd warblers sing. <br /> <br />Her opening breast is stain'd with frequent showers, <br />Her streaming tresses bath'd in chilling dews, <br />And sad before her move the pensive hours, <br />Whose flagging wings no breathing sweets diffuse. <br /> <br />Like some lone pilgrim, clad in mournful weed, <br />Whose wounded bosom drinks her falling tears, <br />On whose pale cheek relentless sorrows feed, <br />Whose dreary way no sprightly carol chears. <br /> <br />Not thus she breath'd on Arno's purple shore, <br />And call'd the Tuscan Muses to her bowers; <br />Not this the robe in Enna's vale she wore, <br />When Ceres daughter fill'd her lap with flowers. <br /> <br />Clouds behind clouds in long succession rise, <br />And heavy snows oppress the springing green; <br />The dazzling waste fatigues the aching eyes, <br />And fancy droops beneath th' unvaried scene. <br /> <br />Indulgent nature loose this frozen zone; <br />Thro' opening skies let genial sun-beams play; <br />Dissolving snows shall their glad impulse own, <br />And melt upon the bosom of the May.<br /><br />Anna Laetitia Barbauld<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-the-backwardness-of-the-spring-1771-2/
