THE SEASONS.
Spring is the sweet soul of the shrouded year;
Psyche, the butterfly, with painted wings,
Forth issuing from the stony lips of death.
Summer's a queen, that to the sun's pavilion
Comes with rich gifts and odours, and a train
Of rainbow-girdled showers, like eastern almas,
With tinkling feet all musical with soft bells.
Autumn's a stag, that, hunted through the hills
By the keen hound-like winds, flies, dropping blood,
Or stands at bay in the full pride of beauty.
And Winter minds me of some lone, wild bird,
That, wandering from the Arctic, makes its nest
In solitary fens, seeking for food
The red marsh berry, and the mailed buds
Of the young, tender branches; or, athirst,
Driving its sharp bill through the polished ice
Into the wave below. It hath no song,
Only a few weird notes; and when the sun
Melts into lucid pools the snow that lies
In the rock crevices, it will go north
With the white water-fowl, that trooping fly,
In ranked battalions, through the gates of March.
Psyche, the butterfly, with painted wings,
Forth issuing from the stony lips of death.
Summer's a queen, that to the sun's pavilion
Comes with rich gifts and odours, and a train
Of rainbow-girdled showers, like eastern almas,
With tinkling feet all musical with soft bells.
Autumn's a stag, that, hunted through the hills
By the keen hound-like winds, flies, dropping blood,
Or stands at bay in the full pride of beauty.
And Winter minds me of some lone, wild bird,
That, wandering from the Arctic, makes its nest
In solitary fens, seeking for food
The red marsh berry, and the mailed buds
Of the young, tender branches; or, athirst,
Driving its sharp bill through the polished ice
Into the wave below. It hath no song,
Only a few weird notes; and when the sun
Melts into lucid pools the snow that lies
In the rock crevices, it will go north
With the white water-fowl, that trooping fly,
In ranked battalions, through the gates of March.