Seasons (Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter)

THERE ARE ONLY TEN MINUTES IN THE LIFE OF A PEAR WHEN IT IS PERFECT TO EAT.

It's spring fever. That is what the name of it is. And when you've got it, you want—oh, you don't quite know what it is you do want, but it just fairly makes your heart ache, you want it so!

November’s sky is chill and drear, November’s leaf is red and sear.

How sweet I roam’d from field to field, And tasted all the summer’s pride, Till I the prince of love beheld, Who in the sunny beams did glide!

Up from the meadows rich with corn, Clear in the cool September morn.

April is the cruellest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain.

in Just- spring when the world is mud- luscious the little lame balloonman whistles far and wee

The leaves fall early this autumn, in wind. The paired butterflies are already yellow with August Over the grass in the West garden; They hurt me. I grow older.

I only know that summer sang in me A little while, that in me sings no more.

I leant upon a coppice gate When Frost was specter-gray, And Winter’s dregs made desolate The weakening eye of day.

In drear nighted December

If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

If you don't like the weather in New England now, just wait a few minutes .

How many things by season season’d are To their right praise and true perfection!

Of the dying year, to which this closing night Will be the dome of a vast sepulcher.

The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind, If winter comes, can spring be far behind?

Come, ye thankful people, come, Raise the song of harvest-home; All is safely gathered in, Ere the winter storms begin.

The skies they were ashen and sober; The leaves they were crispèd and sere— The leaves they were withering and sere: It was night in the lonesome October Of my most immemorial year.

Oh, to be in England now that April’s there, And whoever wakes in England sees, some morning, unaware, That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf Round the elm tree bole are in tiny leaf, While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough In England—now!

It was the schooner Hesperus, That sailed the wintry sea; And the skipper had taken his little daughter, To bear him company.

So, while the light fails

O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn’s being,

Cheerfulness, like spring, opens all the blossoms of the inward man.

Yisterday fair up sprang the flouris, This day thai are all slane with schouris; And fowles in forrest that sang cleir Now walkis with a drery cheir; Full caild are baith thair beddis and bouris.