They tell me on the morrow I must leave 
This winter eyrie for a southern flight 
And truth to tell I tremble with delight 
At thought of such unheralded reprieve.

E'er have I known December in a weave 
Of blanched crystal, when, thrice one short night 
Packed full with magic, and O blissful sight! 
N'er May so warmly doth for April grieve.

To in a breath's space wish the winter through 
And lo, to see it fading! Where, oh, where 
Is caract could endow this princely boon?

Yet I have found it and shall shortly view 
The lush high grasses, shortly see in air 
Gay birds and hear the bees make heavy droon.