 | Jones Very : The Complete Poems |  |
201
The Seasons
I will not call it Spring for me
Till every leaf I've seen,
And every springing blade of grass,
Has its last touch of green;
Till every blossom I can count,
Upon the budding bough;
Then will I call it spring for me,
I cannot see it now.
Till every leaf I've seen,
And every springing blade of grass,
Has its last touch of green;
Till every blossom I can count,
Upon the budding bough;
Then will I call it spring for me,
I cannot see it now.
I will not call the Summer come,
Till every blade shall fall
Beneath the mower's swinging scythe,
The low grass and the tall;
Till where each red and white bud stood,
Hangs fruit for autumn's hand;
But yet I cannot say 'tis here,
And I will waiting stand.
Till every blade shall fall
Beneath the mower's swinging scythe,
The low grass and the tall;
Till where each red and white bud stood,
Hangs fruit for autumn's hand;
But yet I cannot say 'tis here,
And I will waiting stand.
I will not say that Autumn's hour
Is come, is come to me,
Till every apple ripened hangs
Upon the loaded tree;
Till every flower that's owned of Spring,
Where'er my path shall lead,
Shall shake and rattle in the wind
Its stalk and cherished seed.
Is come, is come to me,
Till every apple ripened hangs
Upon the loaded tree;
Till every flower that's owned of Spring,
Where'er my path shall lead,
Shall shake and rattle in the wind
Its stalk and cherished seed.
Then will I say that Winter's near,
But not that he is found;
Till deep the snows have buried all
The fields and trees around;
And every rippling brook that runs
To water grove and flower,
I see lie stiffened by his breath,
And hushed beneath his power.
But not that he is found;
Till deep the snows have buried all
The fields and trees around;
And every rippling brook that runs
To water grove and flower,
I see lie stiffened by his breath,
And hushed beneath his power.
Poem No. 284; late 1839
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