It is the season of the spring
And nightingales are carolling;
O smile on me, and chant a song,
And freely pass the wine along.

Behold the tears that I have shed,
Then on thy beauty turn thy head;
O set my heart of reeds afire
With the swift lightning of desire.

And bid the breeze of spring, I pray,
Unto my fancy take its way
And plaint the valley and the plain
With beauteous images again.

Flower in the mead that blossometh,
Receive new freshness from my breath;
Amid thy bower, since I was born,
I lived beside the rose and thorn.

On my heart’s touchstone then assay
This world of water and of clay;
My heart shall prove a mirror bright
Reflecting all thy shade and light.

Thou st never gambled with thy heart,
Nor of the world had any part;
When in thy presence I would be,
What day of reckoning I see!

The aged ringdovc in the glade
Hearkened to my lament, and said
‘No songbird ever carolled here
So sweet an air of yesterday.’