Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1900.djvu/222

 156. xii

How like a Winter hath my absence been From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year! What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen, What old December's bareness everywhere! And yet this time removed was summer's time; The teeming Autumn, big with rich increase, Bearing the wanton burden of the prime Like widow'd wombs after their Lord's decease: Yet this abundant issue seem'd to me But hope of orphans and unfather'd fruit; For Summer and his pleasures wait on thee, And, thou away, the very birds are mute: Or if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer That leaves look pale, dreading the Winter's near.

157. xiii

From you have I been absent in the spring, When proud-pied April, dress'd in all his trim, Hath put a spirit of youth in everything, That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him. Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell Of different flowers in odour and in hue, Could make me any summer's story tell, Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew; Nor did I wonder at the Lily's white, Nor praise the deep vermilion in the Rose; They were but sweet, but figures of delight, Drawn after you, you pattern of all those. Yet seem'd it Winter still, and, you away, As with your shadow I with these did play.