Classic Poem

Thyrsis, when we parted, swore
Ere the spring he would return—
Ah! what means yon violet flower
And the buds that deck the thorn?
'Twas the Lark that upward sprung!
'Twas the Nightingale that sung!

Idle notes! untimely green!
Why this unavailing haste?
Western gales and skies serene
Speak not always winter past.
Cease, my doubts, my fears to move,
Spare the honour of my love.