'tis He is born

Why does the chilling winter's morn

Smile like a field beset with corn;

Or smell to a mead new shorn,

Thus on the sudden? Come and see

The cause why things thus fragrant be.

'Tis he is born, whose quickening birth

Gives life and lustre, public mirth,

To heaven and the under-earth.

We see him come, and know him ours,

Who, with his sunshine and his showers,

Turns all the patient ground to flowers.

-  Robert Herrick