Seasons (Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter)

Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower.

The first day of spring is one thing, and the first spring day is another. The difference between them is sometimes as great as a month.

Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote The droghte of March hath perced to the roote.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?

’Long about knee-deep in June, ’Bout the time strawberries melts On the vine.

In winter I get up at night And dress by yellow candlelight. In summer, quite the other way, I have to go to bed by day.

I’m going out to clean the pasture spring; I’ll only stop to rake the leaves away (And wait to watch the water clear, I may): I shan’t be gone long.—You come too.

The glacier knocks in the cupboard,

The sun was warm but the wind was chill. You know how it is with an April day When the sun is out and the wind is still, You’re one month on in the middle of May. But if you so much as dare to speak, A cloud comes over the sunlit arch, A wind comes off a frozen peak, And you’re two months back in the middle of March.

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright,

In the afternoon they came unto a land In which it seemed always afternoon.

 

Now folds the lily all her sweetness up,

 

The Rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the Rose.

St. Agnes’ Eve—Ah, bitter chill it was! The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold. The hare limp’d trembling through the frozen grass, And silent was the flock in woolly fold.

Whether the summer clothe the general earth With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eave-drops fall Heard only in the trances of the blast, Or if the secret ministry of frost Shall hang them up in silent icicles, Quietly shining to the quiet moon.

And meadow rivulets overflow, And drops on gate bars hang in a row, And rooks in families homeward go,

The Night is mother of the Day, The Winter of the Spring, And ever upon old Decay The greenest mosses cling.

Keeping the rhythm in their dancing As in their living in the living seasons The time of the seasons and the constellations The time of milking and the time of harvest The time of the coupling of man and woman And that of beasts. Feet rising and falling. Eating and drinking. Dung and death.

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

There is a sumptuous variety about the New England weather... In the spring I have counted one hundred and twenty-six different kinds of weather inside of four and twenty hours.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds.

Inebriate of Air—am I— And Debauchee of Dew— Reeling—through endless summer days— From inns of Molten Blue—

And as he came he saw that it was spring, A time abhorrent to the nihilist Or searcher for the fecund minimum.

The year’s at the spring