Sonnet Ccxxxi: Poem by George Henry Boker

Never, dear season, shall I tire to sing
Of thee whose presence makes my torpid lyre
Glitter and sparkle through its rusted wire
With new-born life, O recreative Spring!
It is not only that the bluebird's wing
Winnows the air, nor that the feathered choir
Pipes in the lustre of the golden fire,
Nor that the violets form their virgin ring.
Ah, no! this season in my calendar,
Is marked with white because, upon a day,
Warm with the balmy glow of closing May,
My lady's heart with love began to stir,
And feel for light with every tender spray,
As though alike Spring touched the flowers and her.