Did We abolish Frost
The Summer would not cease --
If Seasons perish or prevail
Is optional with Us --
My Season's furthest Flower --
I tenderer commend
Because I found Her Kinsmanless,
A Grace without a Friend.
To venerate the simple days
Which lead the seasons by,
Needs but to remember
That from you or I,
They may take the trifle
Spring is the Period
Express from God.
Among the other seasons
But during March and April
None stir abroad
Without a cordial interview
The Mountain sat upon the Plain
In his tremendous Chair --
His observation omnifold,
His inquest, everywhere --
The Seasons played around his knees
Like Children round a sire --
Grandfather of the Days is He
Of Dawn, the Ancestor --
'Tis Seasons since the Dimpled War
In which we each were Conqueror
And each of us were slain
And Centuries 'twill be and more
Another Massacre before
So modest and so vain --
Without a Formula we fought
Each was to each the Pink Redoubt --
No more Vacation!
Term of Light this Day begun!
Failless as the fair rotation
Of the Seasons and the Sun.
Old the Grace, but new the Subjects --
Old, indeed, the East,
Yet upon His Purple Programme
Every Dawn, is first.
Nature -- sometimes sears a Sapling --
Sometimes -- scalps a Tree --
Her Green People recollect it
When they do not die --
Fainter Leaves -- to Further Seasons --
Dumbly testify --
We -- who have the Souls --
Die oftener -- Not so vitally --
There is a Zone whose even Years
No Solstice interrupt --
Whose Sun constructs perpetual Noon
Whose perfect Seasons wait --
Whose Summer set in Summer, till
The Centuries of June
And Centuries of August cease
And Consciousness -- is Noon.
Where is the distant voice
That speaks like my soul?
Buried beneath daylight's clamor
Gold and the seasons
Beneath groaning streets
And the ferment of cities
In my grave of care
And blond laughter
In what bare tomb must I lie
To summon the voice
That speaks like my soul?
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
FAR explore the mountain hollow,
High in air the clouds then follow!
To each brook and vale the Muse
Thousand times her call renews.
Soon as a flow'ret blooms in spring,
It wakens many a strain;
And when Time spreads his fleeting wing,
The seasons come again.
Robert Louis Stevenson
In the other gardens
And all up the vale,
From the autumn bonfires
See the smoke trail!
Pleasant summer over
And all the summer flowers,
The red fire blazes,
The grey smoke towers.
Sing a song of seasons!
Something bright in all!
Flowers in the summer,
Fires in the fall!
I've wiped your face off my face
Ripped your shadow off my shadow
Leveled the hills in you
Turned your plains into hills
Set your seasons quarreling
Turned all the ends of the world from you
Wrapped the path of my life around you
My impenetrable my impossible path
Just try to meet me now
Somewhere upon the general Earth
Itself exist Today --
The Magic passive but extant
That consecrated me --
Indifferent Seasons doubtless play
Where I for right to be --
Would pay each Atom that I am
But Immortality --
Reserving that but just to prove
Another Date of Thee --
Oh God of Width, do not for us
Winter is white on turf and tree,
And birds are fled;
But summer songsters pipe to me,
And petals spread,
For what I dreamt of secretly
His lips have said!
O 'tis a fine May morn, they say,
And blooms have blown;
But wild and wintry is my day,
My birds make moan;
For he who vowed leaves me to pay
It makes no difference abroad --
The Seasons -- fit -- the same --
The Mornings blossom into Noons --
And split their Pods of Flame --
Wild flowers -- kindle in the Woods --
The Brooks slam -- all the Day --
No Black bird bates his Banjo --
For passing Calvary --
Auto da Fe -- and Judgment --
Are nothing to the Bee --
His separation from His Rose --
To Him -- sums Misery --
Algernon Charles Swinburne
The wind's way in the deep sky's hollow
None may measure, as none can say
How the heart in her shows the swallow
The wind's way.
Hope nor fear can avail to stay
Waves that whiten on wrecks that wallow,
Times and seasons that wane and slay.
Life and love, till the strong night swallow
Thought and hope and the red last ray,
Swim the waters of years that follow
The wind's way.
Edwin Arlington Robinson
Let him answer as he will,
Or be lightsome as he may,
Now nor after shall he say
Worn-out words enough to kill,
Or to lull down by their craft,
Doubt, that was born yesterday,
When he lied and when she laughed.
Let him and another name
for the starlight on the snow,
Let him teach her till she know
That all seasons are the same,
And all sheltered ways are fair,—
Still, wherever she may go,
Doubt will have a dwelling there.
There is a June when Corn is cut
And Roses in the Seed --
A Summer briefer than the first
But tenderer indeed
As should a Face supposed the Grave's
Emerge a single Noon
In the Vermilion that it wore
Affect us, and return --
Two Seasons, it is said, exist --
The Summer of the Just,
And this of Ours, diversified
With Prospect, and with Frost --
May not our Second with its First
So infinite compare
That We but recollect the one
The other to prefer?
the song wasn't up to the task
of getting through the double-glazing
into the ears pressed on the outside pane
the rest of their bodies had faded away but
the ears were straining still towards the music
in order to know the good times being had in the room
night fell the cold grew and the lights went out but
the ears hung around believing in music until
they froze and dropped to the ground like
slugs that had missed out on the seasons
it was a bad christmas for ears
If seasons all were summers,
And leaves would never fall,
And hopping casement-comers
Were foodless not at all,
And fragile folk might be here
That white winds bid depart;
Then one I used to see here
Would warm my wasted heart!
One frail, who, bravely tilling
Long hours in gripping gusts,
Was mastered by their chilling,
And now his ploughshare rusts.
So savage winter catches
The breath of limber things,
And what I love he snatches,
And what I love not, brings.