 | Prismatics |  |
THE SEASONS.
THE SEASONS.
AROUND, around, around, around,
The snow is on the frozen ground;
River and rill
Are frore and still,
The warm sun lies on the cold side hill,
And the trees in the forest sound,
As their ice-clasped arms wave to and fro When they shiver their gyves with a stalwart blow.
Slowly, slowly, slowly, slowly
Comes the Spring,
Like a maiden holy;
Her blue eyes hid in a wimple of gray, But a hopeful smile on her face alway; Through the rich, brown earth bursts the pale, green
shoot
From the milk-white threads of the sensitive root,
River and rill
Are frore and still,
The warm sun lies on the cold side hill,
And the trees in the forest sound,
As their ice-clasped arms wave to and fro When they shiver their gyves with a stalwart blow.
Slowly, slowly, slowly, slowly
Comes the Spring,
Like a maiden holy;
Her blue eyes hid in a wimple of gray, But a hopeful smile on her face alway; Through the rich, brown earth bursts the pale, green
shoot
From the milk-white threads of the sensitive root,
118
Like a joy that is fragile and fleeting;
And the little house wren, in his plain, drab coat,
Holds forth, in a plaintive, querulous note,
Like a Quaker at yearly meeting.
Of Autumn, gorgeous, sombre, and sere,
I shall probably write at the close of the year,
But at present, the jubilant Summer is here—
All in love—with her half bursting bodice of green,
Just disclosing that Rasselas valley between;
And her farthingale purfled all over—
With violets, strawberries, lilies, and tulips,
Intermingled with mint-sprigs, suggestive of juleps,
And suggestive of living in clover;
Of a lid-shutting breeze in the shadow of trees,
Of love in a cottage—and lamb and green peas,
Of claret and ice, chicken-curry and rice,
And lobster and lettuce, and every thing nice,
Of fresh milk—and a baby,
And butter, and cheese,
And a thousand affinitive blessings like these.
The Summer, joy-bringer! is warm on my cheek,
It blooms on the blossom, it breathes in the rose,
And if nothing occurs, in the course of a week,
I shall be where the pond-lily blows:
And the little house wren, in his plain, drab coat,
Holds forth, in a plaintive, querulous note,
Like a Quaker at yearly meeting.
Of Autumn, gorgeous, sombre, and sere,
I shall probably write at the close of the year,
But at present, the jubilant Summer is here—
All in love—with her half bursting bodice of green,
Just disclosing that Rasselas valley between;
And her farthingale purfled all over—
With violets, strawberries, lilies, and tulips,
Intermingled with mint-sprigs, suggestive of juleps,
And suggestive of living in clover;
Of a lid-shutting breeze in the shadow of trees,
Of love in a cottage—and lamb and green peas,
Of claret and ice, chicken-curry and rice,
And lobster and lettuce, and every thing nice,
Of fresh milk—and a baby,
And butter, and cheese,
And a thousand affinitive blessings like these.
The Summer, joy-bringer! is warm on my cheek,
It blooms on the blossom, it breathes in the rose,
And if nothing occurs, in the course of a week,
I shall be where the pond-lily blows:
119
Where the wild rose, and willow, are glassed in the pool,—
Where the mornings, and evenings, are fragrant and cool,—
Where the breeze from old Ocean sweeps over the bay,
And the board is six shillings a day!
Where the mornings, and evenings, are fragrant and cool,—
Where the breeze from old Ocean sweeps over the bay,
And the board is six shillings a day!
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