Explore "The Conqueror" by Olive Tilford Dargan on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
O Spring, that flutter'st the slow Winter by, / To drop thy buds before his frosty feet, / Dost thou not grieve to see thy darlings lie / In trodden death, and weep their beauty sweet? / Yet must thou cast thy tender offering, / And make thy way above thy mourned dead, / Or frowning Winter would be always king, / And thou wouldst never walk with crowned head. / So gentle Love must make his venturous way / Among the shaken buds of his own pain; / And many a hope-blown garland meekly lay / Before the chilly season of disdain; / But as no beauty may the Spring outglow, / So he, when throned, no greater lord doth know.