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