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Ere a leaf is on a bush,In the time before the ThrushHas a thought about it's nest,Thou wilt come with half a call,Spreading out thy glossy breastLike a careless Prodigal;Telling tales about the sun,When we've little warmth, or none.
Poets, vain men in their mood!Travel with the multitude;Never heed them; I averThat they all are wanton Wooers;But the thrifty Cottager,Who stirs little out of doors,Joys to spy thee near her home,Spring is coming, Thou art come!
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