When Winter Covering All The Ground Hides Every Sign Of Spring, Sir. However You May Look Around, Pray What Will Then You Sing, Sir? The Spring Was Here Last Year I Know, And Many Bards Did Flute, Sir; I Shall Not Fear A Little Snow Forbid Me From My Lute, Sir. If Words Grow Dull And Rhymes Grow Rare, I'll Sing Of Spring'S Farewell, Sir. For Every Season Steals An Air, Which Has A Springtime Smell, Sir. But If Upon The Other Side, With Passionate Longing Burning, Will Seek The Half Unjeweled Tide, And Sing Of Spring'S Returning.