Ix

The star-flower now, that disks with gold The woodland moss, the forest grass, Already in a day is old, Already doth its beauty pass; Soon, undistinguished, with the mould ’Twill mingle and ’twill mix, alas. The bluet, too, that spreads its skies, Its little heavens, at our feet; And crowfoot-bloom, that, with soft eyes Of amber, now our eyes doth greet, Shall fade and pass, and none surmise How once they made the Maytime sweet.