William Drummond of Hawthornden (1585–1649)

—THAT zephyr every year

So soon was heard to sigh in forests here,

It was for her: that wrapt in gowns of green

Meads were so early seen,

That in the saddest months oft sung the merles,

It was for her; for her trees dropp’d forth pearls.

That proud and stately courts

Did envy those our shades and calm resorts,

It was for her; and she is gone, O woe!

Woods cut again do grow,

Bud doth the rose and daisy, winter done;

But we, once dead, no more do see the sun….

Blush no more, rose, nor, lily, pale remain,

Dead is that beauty which yours late did stain.