To His Lady

(Who asked a Song in Spring) WHY do you bid your poet sing, Who has no mind to song-- Who only wants to see the Spring, Long sought and tarrying long? The shivering, dreary winter through My song enshrined my vow; If then my songs were sweet to you, Let me be silent now! Have I not duly sung, my dear, Your goodness and your grace? Now that your rival, Spring, is here, O let me see her face! The hedge is white with buds of May, The fields are green with Spring, Oh, give your bard a holiday: He does not want to sing! He wants to listen; all alone, He wants to steal away To hear the ring-doves' tender tone, And what the thrushes say. He wants to hear what can't be heard When you and love are near-- The sweet Spring's soft and secret word; Oh, let him go, my dear!