(from the French of Charles d’Orléans)
The Weather hath put off his mien
Of tearing winde and cold advance,
And sporteth new an elegance
Yellow of sun and spritely greene.
Nor bird nor wilde thing to be seen
But shouteth in its own parlance:
“The Weather hath put off his mien
Of tearing winde and cold advance.”
And water where it sprouteth e’en
Weareth the colours of the dance,
And everyone hath mayde quittance
Of the dark wise of wrath and spleen.
The Weather hath put off his mien.
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