Seasons (Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter)

In the Spring, I have counted 136 different kinds of weather inside of 24 hours.

Now welcome, somer, with thy sonne softe, That hast this wintres wedres overshake.

Fear no more the heat o’ the sun, Nor the furious winter’s rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages; Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

No spring, nor summer beauty hath such grace, As I have seen in one autumnal face.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep, Drows’d with the fume of poppies while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers.

The English winter—ending in July, To recommence in August.

The sun that brief December day Rose cheerless over hills of gray, And, darkly circled, gave at noon A sadder light than waning moon.

Summer ends now; now, barbarous in beauty, the stooks arise Around; up above, what wind-walks! what lovely behavior Of silk-sack clouds! Has wilder, willful-wavier Meal-drift molded ever and melted across skies?

I know I am but summer to your heart, And not the full four seasons of the year.

I’ll see you again, Whenever spring breaks through again.

The flowers that bloom in the spring,

I love best to have each thing in its season, doing without it at all other times.

It was a lover and his lass, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, That o’er the green corn-field did pass, In the spring time, the only pretty ring time, When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding; Sweet lovers love the spring.

So foul and fair a day I have not seen.

How like a winter hath my absence been.

And the jocund rebecks sound To many a youth, and many a maid, Dancing in the checkered shade. And young and old come forth to play On a sunshine holiday.

These are the days when Birds come back— A very few—a Bird or two— To take a backward look. These are the days when skies resume The old—old sophistries of June— A blue and gold mistake.

When I set out for Lyonnesse, A hundred miles away, The rime was on the spray, And starlight lit my lonesomeness.

Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow.

The long sobs Of the violins Of autumn Pierce my heart With monotonous languor. 1

Nothing is so beautiful as Spring— When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush.

Monotony is the law of nature. Look at the monotonous manner in which the sun rises. The monotony of necessary occupation is exhilarating and life-giving.

April is the cruellest month, breeding

Snowy, Flowy, Blowy,