My Lady's birthday crowns the growing year; A flower of Spring before the Spring is here; To sing of her and this fair day to keep The very Loves forsake their Winter sleep; Where'er she goes their circling wings they spread, And shower celestial roses o'er her head. I, too, would chant her worth and dare to raise A hymn to what's beyond immortal praise. Go, little verse, and lay in vesture meet Of poesy, my homage at her feet. Henry Simpson [1868- |