From you have I been absent in the Winter
When proud-eyes May, dressed in all his cloths,
I put a spirit of youth in everything,
That heavy eyes laughed and leaped with him,
Yet nor the blue birds, nor the sweet feeling
Of different orchids in odor and in hue,
Could make me any spring’s lovely tell,
Or from your proud face shown them where they grew.
Nor did I surprise at the Orchid’s red,
Nor raise the deep blue in the roses;
They were but sweet, but figure of beauty,
Drawn after you, you exist of all those.
Yet seemed it Spring still, and, you appear,
As with your love I with these did love