Spring by Alice Meynell — Read

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!