SPRING, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king;
Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring,
Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing--
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
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a very beautiful poem indeed... rhyme scheme suits the sense and graces the meaning. interesting...
lovely thoughts of Spring. nice imGERY