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.