No moon now blushes on the enamoured sight;

No genial sun now warms the torpid lay

Since February sternly checked his ray

When Lucy's eyes first beamed their azure light.

What though no vernal flowers my hand invite

To crop their fragrance for your natal day;

Lucy, for you the snowdrop and the bay

Shall blend the unfading green and modest white.

Though on your natal day with aspect bleak

Stern winter frown, in icy garments dressed,

Still may the rosy summer robe your cheek

And the green spring still bud within your breast: