 | Poems |  |
A SONG
OF SUNDRY QUAINT CONCEITS, WRITTEN IN PENSHURST PARK.
[Bring, I pray thee, wanton Spring]
Bring, I pray thee, wanton Spring,
Prithee, all thy treasures bring;
Bring me every flower that stains
Grassy mead, or woodland dell;
All that nod in sunlit lanes;
All on wayside banks that dwell;
For I'd choose
Fancies sweet;
Thoughts most meet
Now I'd use;
Such alone her praise should sing;
Such, I prithee, bring me, Spring.
Prithee, all thy treasures bring;
Bring me every flower that stains
Grassy mead, or woodland dell;
All that nod in sunlit lanes;
All on wayside banks that dwell;
For I'd choose
Fancies sweet;
Thoughts most meet
Now I'd use;
Such alone her praise should sing;
Such, I prithee, bring me, Spring.
Bring, sweet wanton, bring, I pray,
Songs, the sweetest heard by May;
All the melodies that still
Gush around us everywhere,
Wander with thee where we will,
Haunting earth and filling air.
She is sweet;
Songs should be
Sweet as she,
Her to greet;
For the music of my song
Should not do her praises wrong!
Songs, the sweetest heard by May;
All the melodies that still
Gush around us everywhere,
Wander with thee where we will,
Haunting earth and filling air.
She is sweet;
Songs should be
Sweet as she,
Her to greet;
For the music of my song
Should not do her praises wrong!
Hither, Summer, prithee, bring
All the sunshine thou dost fling
On the great earth everywhere,
Ripening grain and flushing flowers,
Gilding all the fields of air;
Making shades and gladness ours;
Lend its fire
To me, so
I may show
My desire,
My warm love is hotter far
Than the noons of Summer are.
All the sunshine thou dost fling
On the great earth everywhere,
Ripening grain and flushing flowers,
348
Making shades and gladness ours;
Lend its fire
To me, so
I may show
My desire,
My warm love is hotter far
Than the noons of Summer are.
Lend me, binder of the sheaves,
Alchemist that turn'st the leaves
All to mighty stores of gold,
All the voices of thy sorrow,
That thou may'st no more behold,
Dainty Summer; I would borrow
Saddest moans;
So I'd plain
Her disdain,
In such tones
As to pity might her move,
For my sorrow—for my love.
Alchemist that turn'st the leaves
All to mighty stores of gold,
All the voices of thy sorrow,
That thou may'st no more behold,
Dainty Summer; I would borrow
Saddest moans;
So I'd plain
Her disdain,
In such tones
As to pity might her move,
For my sorrow—for my love.
Bring me, sheeted Winter, all
That makes men thee ruthless call;
All that stays the streamlet's flow;
All that mocks the snows of May;
All that hardens earth below;
All that turns to night, sweet day;
All things bare,
All things bleak,
Best may speak
Love's despair;
Pranks her, Spring, for me in vain,
Wintered in her cold disdain.
That makes men thee ruthless call;
All that stays the streamlet's flow;
All that mocks the snows of May;
All that hardens earth below;
All that turns to night, sweet day;
All things bare,
All things bleak,
Best may speak
Love's despair;
Pranks her, Spring, for me in vain,
Wintered in her cold disdain.
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