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| WHENCE is it that the air so sudden clears, | |
| And all things in a moment turn so mild? | |
| Whose breath or beams have got proud Earth with child | |
| Of all the treasure that great Nature’s worth, | |
| And makes her every minute to bring forth? | 5 |
| How comes it winter is so quite forced hence | |
| And locked up under ground? That every sense | |
| Hath several objects, trees have got their heads, | |
| The fields their coats, that now the shining meads | |
| Do boast the paunce, the lily, and the rose, | 10 |
| And every flower doth laugh as Zephyr blows? | |
| That seas are now more even than the land; | |
| The rivers run as smoothèd by his hand; | |
| Only their heads are crispèd by his stroke. | |
| How plays the yearling, with his brow scarce broke, | 15 |
| Now in the open grass, and frisking lambs | |
| Make wanton salts about their dry-sucked dams, | |
| Who to repair their bags do rob the fields. | |
| How is’t each bough a several music yields? | |
| The lusty throstle, early nightingale, | 20 |
| Accord in tune though vary in their tale. | |
| The chirping swallow, called forth by the sun, | |
| And crested lark, doth his division run. | |
| The yellow bees the air with murmur fill, | |
| The finches carol and the turtles bill;— | 25 |
| Whose power is this? What god? Behold a King, | |
| Whose presence maketh this perpetual spring, | |
| The glories of which spring grow in that bower, | |
| And are the marks and beauties of his power. | |
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