William Drummond of Hawthornden (1585–1649)

SWEET Spring, thou turn’st with all thy goodly train,

Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with flow’rs;

The zephyrs curl the green locks of the plain,

The clouds for joy in pearls weep down their show’rs.

Thou turn’st, sweet youth, but ah! my pleasant hours

And happy days with thee come not again;

The sad memorials only of my pain

Do with thee turn, which turn my sweets in sours.

Thou art the same which still thou wast before,

Delicious, wanton, amiable, fair;

But she, whose breath embalm’d thy wholesome air,

Is gone,—nor gold nor gems her can restore.

Neglected virtue, seasons go and come,

While thine, forgot, lie closèd in a tomb.