The earth loveth the spring

The earth loveth the spring,

Nor of her coming despaireth,

Withheld by nightly sting,

Snow, and icy fling,

The snarl of the North:

But nevertheless she prepareth

And setteth in order her nurselings to bring them forth,

The jewels of her delight,

What shall be blue, what yellow or white,

What softest above the rest,

The primrose, that loveth best

Woodland skirts and the copses shorn.