Saturday Rave: The Spring by Thomas Carew

We're still too early for this poem, really, but it's a truly glorious thing and the sun is shining like mad, here, so here it is.

Now that the winter's gone, the earth hath lost
His snow-white robes, and now no more the frost
Candies the grass, or casts an icy cream
Upon the silver lake or crystal stream;
And makes it tender, gives a sacred birth
To the dead swallow; wakes in hollow tree
The drowsy cuckoo, and the humble-bee.
Now do a choir of chirping minstrels bring
In triumph to the world the youthful Spring.
The valleys, hills, and woods in rich array
Welcome the coming of the long'd-for May.
Now all things smile, only my love doth lour,
Nor hath the scalding noonday sun the power
To melt that marble ice, which still doth hold
Her heart congeal'd, and makes her pity cold.
The ox, which lately did for shelter fly
Into the stall, doth now securely lie
In open fields; and love no more is made 
By the fireside, but in the cooler shade

Amyntas now doth with his Chloris sleep

Under a sycamore, and all things keep

Time with the season; only she does carry 

June in her eyes, in her heart January.

Thomas Carew, as you will have deduced, lived in a time before the seasonal migration of birds was understood.

Well, it still doesn't seem that likely, does it.

Word To Use Today: swallow. The Old English form of this word is swealwe.