Spring sprung too soon this year,

And now has lost its puff.

Streams run dry; seaside views

Are not remotely rough.

 

On still midsummer calm

And spreads of withered pink,

The sun is beating down.

It’s April time, I think.

 

The damp has drained away;

The fields are like cement.

The skimpiest of rain

Is close to heaven-sent.

 

Tiles upon rooftops roast.

Trees, hardly yet in leaf,

Begin to gasp for life;

This springtime is a thief!