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Poem	I would not ask thee back, fair May, With all your bright-eyed flowers; Nor would I welcome April days With all their laughing showers; For each bright season of the year Can claim its own sweet pleasures; And we must take them as they come— These gladly-given treasures. There's music in the rain that falls In bright October weather; And we must learn to love them both— The sun and rain together. A mist is 'round the mountain-tops Of gold-encircled splendor; A dreamy spell is in the air Of beauty sad and tender. The winter hath not wooed her yet, This fair October maiden; And she is free to wander still With fruits and flowers laden. She shakes the dew-drops from her hair In one swift, golden shower; And all the woods are filled with light That gilds each autumn flower. But soon the frost-king's icy breath Will chill her laughing beauty; And she will waken in the dusk Unto a sterner duty. Ah! life is full of days like these, Of days too bright to perish; Yet death, like winter, claims too oft The things we most would cherish.
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