Image source: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Four_Seasons_by_Alfons_Mucha,_circa_1896.jpg
’Tis the last rose of summer! I shrieked in dismay, and soon its bright petals must wither away! O whence now the peach, the pear, and the orange? For answer the door of time creaked on its door-hinge. ’Tis the first frost of autumn! I sobbed in despair, and winter’s sharp teeth soon will bite the day’s air! The leaves fall in shock at the season’s cruel crime, like a dandruff of years on the shoulders of time. ’Tis the winter’s fifth blizzard! I howled in a rage, and my soul gnaws its tail like a beast in a cage. Though winter is wan, yet my passion is purple, for griefs have my heart by the hair, and they sure pull. ’Tis the spring-time’s first peony! I squealed in delight, and its delicate bloom is for sore eyes a sight! Now the season’s warm joy holds the forests in thrall, and I believe that I don’t feel so bad after all. -------------------------------------------------------------
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