University of Virginia Library

Summer's face is set around
With a rosy wreath;
Rose tints on her damask cheek,
Rose scents in her breath!
Summer's smiles are very fair,
And her deep, soft eyes declare
Honeyed meanings, while her voice
Saith for aye, “Rejoice, rejoice!”
So I pour my spirit o'er her
And I bend my knee before her,
Singing ditties in her honour,
Heaping all my praise upon her,
Till . . ah, yes, I must avow,
When the hour comes she doth bow
At the sound of Time's death-knell,
I can say, farewell, farewell,
With small weeping in my eyes,
And small sense of sacrifice;
See her waning, fading slowly,
See her pass and vanish wholly,
Sighing not while Autumn weaves
Grave-robes of her withered leaves;
Nay, exulting, when anon,
To possess her vacant throne,
While the heaven grows black and madly
Toss the bare boughs to and fro,
Winter cometh, shouting hoarsely, o'er the hill top, through the snow!

He is come—he greets us there;
He and I will talk together—
I, beside my hearth-fire's glare,
He, without, with his wild weather.
Pshaw! let ballad-mongers sing,
Harping on a worn out string,
That old story, old and weary,
Of sad Summer's withering;
Let them sing, with sour grimaces,
Mock tears rolling down their faces,
Of a daisy, nipped untimely,
Or some other doleful thing.
Better faith, I wot, is mine,
Winter, while I greet thee there;
Thou, without, with thy wild weather,
I, beside my hearth-fire's glare.
Better faith, ye ballad-mongers,
Take it in its sober grace,—
That no blessing e'er departeth,
But another takes its place:
Flowers are taken—out-door gladness,
Song and bloom, they both depart;
But, by stress of Nature's sadness,
Heart draws nearer unto heart.
Clouds obscure the sky's sweet azure,
Feeble sunshine streameth through—
All the brighter love up-springeth,
With its sunshine warm and true.
For the aspects, changed and withered,
Of the garden, glen, and stream,
See the faces that are gathered
Round the yule-fire's ruddy gleam;
Kindly faces, cordial faces,
Hearty age, and frolic youth—
Who would sigh for shrivelled daisies,
'Mid such joy as this, good sooth!
Who would say, amid the laughter,
Harping on the old pretence—
God doth take the gladness from us,
When he taketh Summer hence?
Who—but hark! old Winter shouteth,
Till the woodland echoes ring,
“Take this faith, ye ballad-mongers,—pr'y thee snap that worn-out string.”