Spring, the year's youth, fair mother of new flowers,
New leaves, new loves, drawn by the winged hours,
Thou art return'd; - but the felicity
Thou brought'st me last is not return'd with thee;
Thou art returned, but nought returns with thee,
Save my lost joys - regretful memory -
Thou art the self-same thing thou wert before,
As fair and jocund: but I am no more
The thing I was, so gracious in her sight,
Who is Heaven's masterpiece, and Earth's delight.