WHENCE is it, that amaz'd 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 practis'd 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, When only need'st to sing, To make ev'n January charm, And ev'ry season Spring.