Spring
SPRING, the sweet Spring, is the year’s pleasant king;Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring;Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing,Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, tu-witta-woo.
The palm and may make country-houses gay,Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,And hear we aye birds tune this merry lay,Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, tu-witta-woo.
The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit;In every street these tunes our ears do greet,Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, tu-witta-woo.Spring, the sweet Spring!
JOHN DONNE 1573–1631