Spring

Gone were but the winter come were but the spring I would go to covert where the birds sing.

Wherein the whitethorn singeth a thrush and a robin sings in the holly bush

Full of fresh scent are budding boughs arching high over a cool greenhouse

Here dwell in safety here dwell alone with a clear stream and a mossy stone

''Here the sun shineth Most shadily here is heard an echo of the far sea though far it is.''

Full of sweet scents and whispering air Which sayeth softly wesoread no snare.

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