Some buds spawn flowers every other year, Some flourish once a feeble generation, Some languish barren until the ripe occasion With honeybees contrives their likes to pair. Some blossom while the branches still forbear In rich array to prime the Spring invasion, When season heralds muddled in conflation, Sport horns and bells in jangling thoroughfare. The rustic poet, come these rites of Spring, As sunken florets coat the primrose creeks, Fresh fancies finds in all, and meekly craves To every random wanton thought to cling, Sever the chains of waddling Winter weeks, And scuttle down the scented Laurel waves.