Seasons (Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter)

In the spring a livelier iris changes on the burnished dove;

 

In the spring a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.

 

Ring out the old, ring in the new,

 

In the bleak midwinter Frosty wind made moan, Earth stood hard as iron, Water like a stone; Snow had fallen, snow on snow, Snow on snow, In the bleak midwinter, Long ago.

A cold coming we had of it,

I have often thought, says Sir Roger, it happens very well that Christmas should fall out in the Middle of Winter.

You were saved because you were the first. You were saved because you were the last. Alone. With others. On the right. On the left. Because it was raining. Because of the shade. Because the day was sunny.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,— While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft; And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

Cold in the earth—and fifteen wild Decembers,

 

The seasons are no longer what they once were, But it is the nature of things to be seen only once, As they happen along, bumping into other things, getting along Somehow. That’s where Orpheus made his mistake.

anyone lived in a pretty how town (with up so floating many bells down) spring summer autumn winter he sang his didn’t he danced his did.

A hush is over everything— / Silent as women wait for love, / The world is waiting for the spring.

Ô saisons, ô châteaux!

In summer the song sings itself above the muffled words—

Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet ’tis early morn: Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon the bugle horn.

 

The woods decay, the woods decay and fall,

 

The moan of doves in immemorial elms,

 

O, it sets my heart a-clickin’ like the tickin’ of a clock, When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.

In the bleak mid-winter

Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn

Now it is autumn and the falling fruit

 

The last red leaf is whirled away,

 

Spring hangs her infant blossoms on the trees / Rock’d in the cradle of the western breeze.

Excess generally causes reaction, and produces a change in the opposite direction, whether it be in the seasons, or in individuals, or in governments.