A Welcome

Welcome, welcome! do I sing,

Far more welcome than the spring;

He that parteth from you never

Shall enjoy a spring for ever.

He that to the voice is near

Breaking from your iv'ry pale,

Need not walk abroad to hear

The delightful nightingale.

Welcome, welcome, then . . .

He that looks still on your eyes,

Though the winter have begun

To benumb our arteries,

Shall not want the summer's sun.

Welcome, welcome, then . . .

He that still may see your cheeks,

Where all rareness still reposes,

Is a fool if e'er he seeks

Other lilies, other roses.

Welcome, welcome, then . . .

He to whom your soft lip yields,

And perceives your breath in kissing,

All the odours of the fields

Never, never shall be missing.

Welcome, welcome, then . . .