Whence Is It That, Amazed, I Hear From Yonder Wither'D Spray, This Foremost Morn Of All The Year, The Melody Of May? And Why, Since Thousands Would Be Proud Of Such A Favour Shown, Am I Selected From The Crowd To Witness It Alone? Sing'St Thou, Sweet Philomel, To Me, For That I Also Long Have Practised In The Groves Like Thee, Though Not Like Thee In Song? Or Sing'St Thou, Rather, Under Force Of Some Divine Command, Commission'D To Presage A Course Of Happier Days At Hand? Thrice Welcome Then! For Many A Long And Joyless Year Have I, As Thou To-Day, Put Forth My Song Beneath A Wintry Sky. But Thee No Wintry Skies Can Harm, Who Only Need'St To Sing To Make E'En January Charm, And Every Season Spring.