Littell's Living Age/Volume 130/Issue 1683/Two Seasons

by Sarah Doudney

TWO SEASONS.

Can this be spring? These tearful lights that break
⁠Across wet uplands in the windy dawn
Are paler than the primroses, that make
⁠Dim glories on the banks of field and lawn;
Wild blasts are sweeping o'er the garden beds,
⁠Wild clouds are drifting through the dull, grey skies,
And early flowers, rain-beaten, hang their heads;
⁠Can it be spring that wears this stormy guise?

.   .   .   .   .   .   .   .

Can this be autumn? Freshly green and fair
⁠The meadows glisten in the morning rays,
Touches of brown and crimson, here and there,
⁠Are all that tell us that the year decays.
We would not have the old year young again;
⁠If this be death, we find him passing sweet;
Watching the soft hues change on hill and plain,
⁠We wait in peace the calm destroyer's feet.

Sarah Doudney⁠

⁠Good Words.