The Page had loste all his wits in Palestine
from a stroke dealte hardily by a Moor
which is a Man alwaie accursed
and coulde say little that might be understanded,
and there was one Song which he sang
from Dawn to Duske in dolorous wise
and none might stay him from singing.
And I have written his song even as I heard it.
Spring-time, shall it bring thee ease
From the woes the Gods have sent?
May the leafage of the trees
Soothe unreste and discontent ?
Can the glory of the fields
Give what nought in heaven yields?
Plucking Hawthorne in the hedge
Shall a peace be found in it?
Summer's wealth may ne'er disedge
That sad warp in thy poor wit—
All the hope that being slain,
Turns to venom in the brain.
Gay is spring time, free and bold,
Summer's blazing pageantry—
Autumn is a lord of gold.
What can all this profit thee?
Seek thy rest in winter's wind,
King dethroned from one poor mind
Snow and sleet shall soothe thee best—
Hail and tinkling icicle
Freeze some comfort in a breast
Full of fancies terrible—
Seek thy rest in Nature's pain
Oh weak King of one wild brain!
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