These rugged, wintry days I scarce could bear,

Did I not know, that, in the early spring,

When wild March winds upon their errands sing,

Thou wouldst return, bursting on this still air

Like those same winds, when, startled from their lair,

They hunt up violets, and free swift brooks

From icy cares, even as thy clear looks

Bid my heart bloom, and sing, and break all care:

When drops with welcome rain the April day,

My flowers shall find their April in thine eyes,

Save there the rain in dreamy clouds doth stay,

As loath to fall out of those happy skies;

Yet sure, my love, thou art most like to May,

That comes with steady sun when April dies.