fate Spring. 
Southey. 
rpHou lingerest, Spring, still wintry is the scene ; 
The fields their dead and sapless russet wear; 
Scarce does the glossy Celandine appear 
Starring the sunny bank, or, early green, 
The Elder yet its circling tufts put forth ; 
The sparrow tenants still the cave-built nest, 
Where we should see our martin’s snowy breast 
Oft darting out. The blasts from the bleak north 
And from the keener east still frequent blow; 
Sweet Spring, thou lingerest, and it should be so— 
Late let the fields and gardens blossom out! 
Like man, when most with smiles thy face is drest, 
’Tis to deceive, and he who knows you best. 
When most ye promise, even most will doubt. 
