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Thomas Lodge

(1558-1625 / England)

The Earth, Late Chok'd with Showers


The earth, late chok'd with showers,
Is now array'd in green,
Her bosom springs with flowers,
The air dissolves her teen;
The heavens laugh at her glory,
Yet bide I sad and sorry.

The woods are deck'd with leaves,
And trees are clothed gay,
And Flora crown'd with sheaves,
With oaken boughs doth play;
Where I am clad in black,
The token of my wrack.

The birds upon the trees
Do sing with pleasant voices,
And chant in their degrees
Their loves and lucky choices;
When I, whilst they are singing,
With sighs mine arms am wringing.

The thrushes seek the shade,
And I my fatal grave;
Their flight to heaven is made,
My walk on earth I have;
They freely, I thrall; they jolly,
I sad and pensive wholly.

Submitted: Friday, January 03, 2003

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