From you I have been absent in the Spring,
When proud-pied April, dress'd in all his trim,
Hath put a spirit of youth in everything,
That heavy Saturn laughed and leaped with him.
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell,
Of different flowers in odour and hue,
Could make me any Summer's story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew.
Nor did I wonder at the lily's white,
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
They were sweet, but figures of delight,
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
Yet seemed it Winter still, and, you away,
As with your shadow I with these did play.