The Sad Lover

…from the quills of dead white poets

Thomas Lodge (1557-1625)

The earth, late chok’d with showers,

Is now array’d in green;

Her bosom springs with flowers,

The air dissolves her teen:

The heavens laugh at her glory,

Yet bide I sad and sorry.

The woods are deck’d with leaves,

And trees are clothed gay;

And Flora, crown’d with sheaves,

With oaken boughs doth play:

Where I am clad in black,

The token of my wrack.

The birds upon the trees

Do sing with pleasant voices,

And chant in their degrees

Their loves and lucky choices:

When I, whilst they are singing,

with sighs mine arms am wringing.

The thrushes seek the shade,

And I my fatal grave;

Their flight to heaven is made,

My walk on earth I have:

They free, I thrall, they jolly,

I sad and pensive wholly.


About Avadoro Worden

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