Hath aged winter, fledg'd with feathered raine, To frozen Caucasus his flight now tane? Doth hee in downy snow there closely shrowd His bedrid limmes, wrapt in a fleecy clowd? Is th' earth disrobed of her apron white, Kind winter's guift, and in a greene one dight? Doth she beginne to dandle in her lappe Her painted infants, fedd with pleasant pappe, Which their bright father in a pretious showre From heavens sweet milky streame doth gently poure? Doth blith Apollo cloath the heavens with joye, And with a golden wave wash cleane away Those durty smutches, which their faire fronts wore, And make them laugh, which frown'd and wept before? If heaven hath now forgot to weepe; o then What meane these shoures of teares amongst us men? These Cataracts of greife, that dare ev'n vie With th' richest clowds their pearly treasurie? If winter's gone, whence this untimely cold, That on these snowy limmes hath laid such hold? What more than winter hath that dire art found, These purple currents hedg'd with violets round To corrallize, which softly wont to slide In crimson waveletts, and in scarlet tide? If Flora's darlings now awake from sleepe, And out of their greene mantletts dare to peepe: O tell me then, what rude outragious blast Forc't this prime flowre of youth to make such hast To hide his blooming glories, and bequeath His balmy treasure to the bedd of death? 'Twas not the frozen zone; One sparke of fire, Shott from his flaming eye, had thaw'd it's ire, And made it burne in love: 'Twas not the rage, And too ungentle nippe of frosty age: 'Twas not the chast, and purer snow, whose nest Was in the modest Nunnery of his brest: Noe. none of these ravish't those virgin roses, The Muses, and the Graces fragrant posies. Which, while they smiling sate upon his face, They often kist, and in the sugred place Left many a starry teare, to thinke how soone The golden harvest of our joyes, the noone Of all our glorious hopes should fade, And be eclipsed with an envious shade. Noe, 'twas old doting Death, who, stealing by, Dragging his crooked burthen, look't awry, And streight his amorous syth (greedy of blisse) Murdred the earth's just pride with a rude kisse. A winged Herald, gladd of soe sweet a prey, Snatch't upp the falling starre, soe richly gay, And plants it in a precious perfum'd bedd, Amongst those Lillies, which his bosome bredd. Where round about hovers with silver wing A golden summer, an aeternall spring. Now that his root such fruit againe may beare, Let each eye water't with a courteous teare. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE CLOTE (WATER-LILY) by WILLIAM BARNES THE FALLEN STAR by GEORGE DARLEY IN THE SHADOWS: 19 by DAVID GRAY (1838-1861) WHEN THE COWS COME HOME by AGNES E. MITCHELL HISTORY OF A LIFE by BRYAN WALLER PROCTER SONG OF THE BROAD-AXE by WALT WHITMAN LINES COMPOSED AT GRASMERE by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH |