Seasons (Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter)

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

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.

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

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

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

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.

What is the late November doing With the disturbance of the spring.

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

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

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.

In summer the song sings itself above the muffled words—

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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?

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

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

This is the weather the shepherd shuns,

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