A Season's Dance
By a little log house that I used to call home,
In the hills and the woods that I once used to roam,
There the seasons would dance with the grace of a swan
Till the music was stilled and the curtain was drawn.
And the dance of the spring filled my heart with delight,
From the rose-tinted dawn to the sweet-tempered night;
For the blooms of the rose were a gossamer gown,
While the carpet of flow'rs was the softest of down;
And the warm, gentle breeze was the touch of a hand
That from heaven had quickened the land.
Oh, the dance of the seasons is dear unto me
As the little log house by the old oaken tree,
And I wish I was back there again.
There the dance of the summer was pleasant and long,
All the streams and the rivers were bursting with song,
Every sweet berry bush was a wonderful friend,
And the garden a feast that I used to attend;
Flocks of birds wheeled as one like a cavalry drill,
And the butterflies danced on the hill.
Oh, the dance of the seasons is dear unto me
As the cool mountain stream 'neath the old oaken tree,
And I wish I was back there again.
Then at summer's last fade stole an autumnal wave,
Both as quiet and swift as an Indian brave;
All the leaves on the trees were transformed into gold,
And the warm summer days turned to frost and to cold;
It was then that the apples were blushing like girls,
And the rainbows that fell shone like pearls.
Oh, the dance of the seasons is dear unto me
As the leaves that fell down from the old oaken tree,
And I wish I were back there again.
Cloudy winter was filled with the dance of the snow,
With the faint smell of smoke, with the firelight's glow;
And I oftentimes walked down the path to the hill
Where the snow-angels danced round the old cider mill;
And the house dressed in snow, and in icicles too
Was a cave by the seawater blue.
Oh, the dance of the seasons is dear unto me
As the snow-covered woods by the old oaken tree,
And I wish I were back there again.
By Isaiah Zerbst on the seventh of October, 2013
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