lady, wouldst thou heiress be

to winters cold and cruel part?

when he sets the rivers free,

thou dost still lock up thy heart; —

thou that shouldst outlast the snow,

but in the whiteness of thy brow?

scorn and cold neglect are made

for winter gloom and winter wind,

but thou wilt wrong the summer air,

breathing it to words unkind —

breath which only should belong

to love, to sunlight, and to song!

when the little buds unclose.

red, and white, and pied, and blue,

and that virgin flow’r, the rose,

opes her heart to hold the dew,

wilt thou lock thy bosom up

with no jewel in its cup?

let not cold december sit

thus in love’s peculiar throne:

brooklets are not prison’d now,

but crystal frosts are all agone,

and that which hangs upon the spray,

it is no snow, but flow’r of may!