Томас Лодж (Thomas Lodge)

The Earth, Late Chok'd with Showers

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 freely, I thrall; they jolly, 
        I sad and pensive wholly.

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