Seasons (Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter)

Youth is like spring, an overpraised season— delightful if it happen to be a favored one, but in practice very rarely favored and more remarkable, as a general rule, for biting east winds than genial breezes.

The gaudy, blabbing, and remorseful day Is crept into the bosom of the sea.

Whan that the month of May Is comen, and that I here the foules synge, And that the floures gynnen for to sprynge, Farewel my bok, and my devocioun!

Lord, this is an huge rayn! This were a weder for to slepen inne!

For May wol have no slogardie anyght. The sesoun priketh every gentil herte, And maketh hym out of his slep to sterte.

When icicles hang by the wall, And Dick the shepherd blows his nail, And Tom bears logs into the hall, And milk comes frozen home in pail, When blood is nipp’d and ways be foul, Then nightly sings the staring owl, Tu-who; Tu-whit, tu-who—a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

At Christmas I no more desire a rose Than wish a snow in May’s newfangled mirth; But like of each thing that in season grows.

For you there’s rosemary and rue; these keep Seeming and savor all the winter long.

Under the opening eyelids of the morn, We drove afield; and both together heard What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn, Batt’ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night.

Days decrease, And autumn grows, autumn in everything.

Winter is icumen in, Lhude sing Goddamm, Raineth drop and staineth slop, And how the wind doth ramm! Sing: Goddamm. 1

He was as fressh as is the month of May.

Expect Saint Martin’s summer, halcyon days.

From you have I been absent in the spring, When proud-pied April, dress’d in all his trim, Hath put a spirit of youth in everything.

There’s a certain Slant of light, Winter Afternoons— That oppresses, like the Heft Of Cathedral Tunes—

And what is so rare as a day in June? Then, if ever, come perfect days.

The year’s at the spring And day’s at the morn; Morning’s at seven; The hillside’s dew-pearled; The lark’s on the wing; The snail’s on the thorn: God’s in his heaven— All’s right with the world.

Now ’tis the spring, and weeds are shallow-rooted; Suffer them now and they’ll o’ergrow the garden.

Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York.

May, with alle thy floures and thy grene, Welcome be thou, faire, fresshe May.

Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, And with forc’d fingers rude Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.

O! how this spring of love resembleth The uncertain glory of an April day!

When all aloud the wind doth blow, And coughing drowns the parson’s saw, And birds sit brooding in the snow, And Marian’s nose looks red and raw, When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl.