…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.