Let not the winter’s ragged hand deface
In thee the hope of warmer days
For see proud-pied April doth efface
The harshest work of winter’s cold gaze,
So fields and beds, once bare on earth,
Bring forth, as if from stone, their verdure
Which as with great contended mirth
Doth leap and laugh as winter’s ardour
Gives way to spring wherein the birds shall sing
And blossom fling their beauties o’er the clades
Of trees in green of every hue, which ring
In silence throughout the lustrous glades.
So at the end of thy seven by seven be still
And accept this verse the expression of my good will