The Seasons
With virgin Spring he travelled arm in arm,
Watching her trickery with buds and flowers,
A conquered captive by her magic charm,
Her gentle breezes and her vernal showers,
When larks sang sweetly over violet bowers,
And linnets twittered on the sprouting tree;
To Monro these were more delightful hours
Than any others in the year could be,
And in a fresher strain his simple songs sang he.
He loved the Summer for her robe of green,
Her wayside gems, and leafy forests grand,
Her wealth of roses in the noon's full sheen,
When bursts of gladness travel o'er the land;
And Autumn, with the dry leaves in his hand
O'erwritten with the stanzas of the wood,
When the rich grapes, by amorous zephyrs fanned,
Hang by the porch, and cluster near the flood,
Speaking in wisdom's ear that God to all is good.
And Old Man Winter had his charms as well,
The fairy frost-work glittering on the pane,
The snow-flakes falling in the hollow dell,
Or ranked in drifts upon the open plain,
The plover's cry, the robin's liquid strain,
When sunlight gleamed, beside his cottage door,
The cowboy's whistle in the sheltered lane,
Or the warm log-light falling on the floor,
All these illumed his thought and added to his store.
The time of early budding was his choice,
When Nature roused herself from winter's sleep,
And through the woodlands rang a gladsome voice,
And golden sunbeams glittered on the steep.
The opening blossoms caused his heart to leap,
And the first primrose by the watching meres,
Like a fond mother long time led to weep
For a lost child throughout the lagging years,
Returning swiftly home to wipe away her tears.
