Thy one brief parting pang may show:
And withering thoughts for soul that dashes,
From deep to deep, are but a death more slow.
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Calls us; we lose the prime, to mark how spring
Our tended plants, how blows the citron grove,
What drops the myrrh, and what the balmy reed,
How nature paints her colours, how the bee
Sits on the bloom, extracting liquid sweet.
HEX: #363F48
RGB: 54 63 72
RGB: 54 63 72
HEX: #F26E21
RGB: 242 110 33
RGB: 242 110 33
HEX: #FFD602
RGB: 255 214 2
RGB: 255 214 2
HEX: #2D839E
RGB: 45 131 158
RGB: 45 131 158
HEX: #65CCA9
RGB: 101 204 169
RGB: 101 204 169
First, lusty Spring, all dight in leaves of flowres
That freshly budded and new bloomes did beare,
In which a thousand birds had built their bowres
That sweetly sung to call forth paramours;
And in his hand a javelin he did beare,
And on his head (as fit for warlike stoures)
A guilt, engraven morion he did weare:
That, as some did him love, so others did him feare.
