VIII—THE SEASONS
O strange Spring days, when from the shivering ground
Love riseth, wakening from his dreamful swound
And, frightened, in the stream his face hath found!
O Summer days, when Love hath grown apace,
And feareth not to look upon Love's face,
And lightnings burn where earth and sky embrace!
O Autumn, when the winds are dank and dread,
How brave above the dying and the dead
The conqueror, Love, uplifts his banner red!
O Winter, when the earth lies white and chill!
Now only hath strong Love his perfect will,
Whom heat, nor cold, nor death can bind nor kill.
