Spring's Messenger, the Sweet-Voiced Nightingale

Beside each forest-root
The lilies freshly shoot.
Narcissi crown the grass.
Bees hum, and toil, and pass.

Then breaks the piercing note
From Philomel's wild throat:
Passion's supremest pain
That may not hope again.

Zeus sends the gracious Spring,
And must her herald sing
In kindly-bowered retreat
Only of love's defeat?