Midwinter.

The dew-drop from the rose that slips
Hath not the sparkle of her lips,
My lady's lips.
Than her long braids of yellow hold
The dandelion hath not more gold,
Her braids like gold.
The blue-bell hints not more of skies
Than do the flowers in her eyes,
My lady's eyes.
The sweet-pea blossom doth not wear
More dainty pinkness than her ear,
My lady's ear.
So, heigho! then, tho' skies be gray,
My heart's a garden that is gay
This sorry day.