Sweet Spring, full of sweet dayes and roses, A box where sweets compacted lie, My musick shows ye have your closes, And all must die.

Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, a box where sweets compacted lie.

Spring, spring! Bytuene Mershe ant Averil, when spray biginneth to spring! When shaws be sheene and swards full fayre, and leaves both large and longe! When the hounds of spring are on winter’s traces, in the spring time, the only pretty ring time, when the birds do sing, hey-ding-a-ding ding, cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-wee, ta-witta-woo! And so on and so on and so on. See almost any poet between the Bronze Age and 1805.

Spring hangs her infant blossoms on the trees, Rock'd in the cradle of the western breeze.

For surely in the blind deep-buried roots Of all men's souls to-day A secret quiver shoots.

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now Is hung with bloom along the bough.