Alas, the winter has hurt us everywhere. The forest and the heath are both so bare, Where many a sweet voice resounded through the air. Ah, if on the street I saw the maidens fair Play ball, the songs of birds would be there. I should like to sleep through winter's delay. Jealous I grow when awake I stay, Because the winter has such a mighty sway. God knows at last he yields unto May, Where the frost lies now, I'll pluck a nosegay. |