INSCRIBED TO HORACE GREELEY.
‘Fancy, with prophetic glance,
Sees the teeming months advance.”
T. Warton.
[_]
The following brief poems on the Months present to the reader the somewhat discursive ideas of one who
is an ardent lover of Nature in all her varied aspects, and whose mind delights to dwell upon the scenery of
the beautiful country where he lives, but occasionally will wander from the mountain and the valley, the forest
and the glade, to the busy scenes of life, and the pages of history. Each of the months is marked by its own
distinctive features, clothed in its appropriate garb, and hallowed by the recollection of events which have
occurred during its continuance. The year which came with the one closes with another. There is, in this
constant, never-ending change, something congenial to the nature of man, stamped on everything around him.
Were our skies forever of an azure blue, clear and unclouded, we should soon become wearied with the
sameness of their aspect.
Who would be doomed to gaze upon
A sky without a cloud or sun?
Did our magnificent lakes present an ever-placid and unruffled surface, unmoved by the wild winds' play,
the beauty of the scenery in their vicinity would lose an essential constituent. Neither sunshine nor storm
heat nor cold, verdure nor snow, can singly satisfy our ever-craving appetite for change.
