University of Virginia Library

THE SEASONS.

SPRING.

A voice comes nearer as the fresh winds sweep,
And pierces through the dreaming of the Earth,
Wherein as ever, waking or asleep,
She labours still for each revolving birth.
She knows afar the voice, through fields of air,
Of her, before whose coming, blue and fair
The heavens enlarge themselves, and softly meet
With the horizon hills of shadowy blue
Whence run the loosened waters, azure too,
While the blue violets spring to kiss her feet.
Our hearts leap in us, as thou comest, Spring!
Joy runs before thee, thou whose touch can bring
All hidden life to its own conscious hour,
The breaking of its own form to the flower,
The swelling of its own heart to the bud,
And to the maiden's cheek the quicker blood.
The waving wings of birds in unison
Before thee spread thy secret to the air,
And the winds sweep with it across the bare
Boughs of the forest, till they too bear on
The rushing music of the wild south-west.
O first fair hours, shall not the last be best?
And here they come, the promise of the year,
Young dreams, young hopes, winged from another sphere.
Although their tender feet are on the flowers,
These budding wings must grow with growing hours;
Yet stay with us awhile your fairy flight,
And make the whole way lovely with your light!

SUMMER.

Sing me thy songs, O Summer! let me hear,
Now that the boughs are green, the winds are laid,
Through the warm noonday silence of the shade,
The things thou hast to give, fulfilled and near.
A fire of poppies burns within the wheat,
And through my eyelids shoots its slumberous heat,
With dazzling images of all bright things;
The very dreams have folded their sweet wings,
As if they had arrived at their own shore,
And had no need to wander any more.
A scent of bean flowers comes across the breeze,
Filled with the busy murmur of the bees,
And all the distance lies in hazy gold;
And even as thou singest, I behold,
Amid the leafy windings of the plain,
Some lane of roses leading lone and low
Into a bower of bliss for me to gain,
Awaiting me until the sunset's glow.
The lilies and the hollyhocks stand tall
On the smooth lawn against the cottage wall,
The doves' white wings upon its low roofs brood,
And the great lime-trees guard its solitude.
Shall I not enter in, and be content,
Past the long rows of bees that homeward went?
They too have made their home about its door,
And hive for me their golden summer store.

AUTUMN.

Where is the promise of thy golden days,
O Summer, of thy softly-fleeting hours?
Is this the end of thy delightful ways?
The year is waning:—what is left for ours?
Through leafless branches chilly blows the air;
Yet let us turn, our garnered wealth to share,
And comfort us with warmth of corn and wine,
Strengthening our hearts to meet the year's decline.
But where are thy heaped treasures manifold,
Thy purple fruitage, and thy sheaves of gold?
The showers of spring, the sultry summer's sun
Have been before thee, and their part is done;
What more is wanting to the harvest-home,
Pressed full and full, and plenty left to come?
Spring passed in hopes, and summer passed in dreams,
Thy passing should be glorious too, meseems.
What is this scanty fruit so poor, so cold,
Thy branches scatter, and thy fingers hold?
Is this the measure but of one day's meal?
What for the sinking heart of days that steal
With lengthening shadows towards me, and the store
Of bounty that should overflow my door?
O purple hills, O purple wastes all bare,
Ye mock me, thinking of the days that were!
I stretch my empty hands in vain, in vain;—
These idle hands that had in all the past
Their own part waiting them:—and yet, at last,
Is it too late some working space to gain?
Are not these arms still strong?—Too well I know,
This is the time to reap, and not to sow.

WINTER.