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Poem

These seasons which sing in silent symphonies,
   like the hush of a new age,
   like portals to pretence,
   actualized to change itself;
   
The winter wind ---
   he who loses his cool to birth of Spring,
   and July in its hot, hazy adventures,
   to Autumn and Indian Summer 
   are born many a poet,
   with its myriad of romantic ink,
   and misted-arbor parks;
   
When Apollo walks his most precious muse
   and whispers for those who watch....
   'Thy art, for you my gift'
   the eolian sings unheard,
   but for Wordsworth in his wood,
   where we oft follow,
   and Coleridge bellowing of its ministries...

All we have is that which seasons sing,
   as a nightingale from Keat's tree,
   and how Tennyson even became lost in its moss,
   covered in dark, rain, snow...
   where Maria waited the Lonely Wood....
   but from a many colored pallet
   we see where beauty lies,
   how it bats her eyes in thy soul,
   and a feeling of love follows,
   for the snowcapped mountains,
   and June-green forest,
   waking with a galaxy of life,
   
Bursting upon the rocks....
   the breakers in Dover hath held agape ---
   the Saxon word-smiths of old,
   and from many a pen we have answered,
   living in our calendars,
   and endless months,
   (these seasons which sing in silent symphonies...)

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