“From you have I been absent in the spring. When proud pied April dress’d in all his trimHath put a spirit of youth in everything. That heavy Saturn laugh’d and leap’d with him. Yet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet smellOf different flowers in odour and in hueCould make me any summer’s story tell, Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew; Nor did I wonder at the lily’s white, Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose; They were but sweet, but figures of delight, Drawn after you, you pattern of all those. Yet seem’d it winter still, and, you away, As with your shadow I with these did play. ”