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 hearts 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.