THE smiling Spring is too light a thing—
Too much of a child for me.
No trace in her face of the ripen'd grace
That a lover would love to see.
Hers are the showers—but half the flowers
Hang back for her sister's call.
Amongst the seasons, for divers reasons,
The Spring is the worst of all.
I dread the Summer, the next new-comer;.
Because of her changeful forms:
She merits my praise for her cloudless days,
But my wrath for her fearful storms.
There are flames in her love from the fires above,
And her kisses like lava fall.
Amongst the seasons, for various reasons,
The Summer is worst of all.
The Autumn drear glides into a year
With the moan of an injured ghost.
Then shiver and fall the brown leaves all,
And the woods are in rags almost.
She comes and flings on blossoming things
A shadow of shroud and pall.
Amongst the seasons, for several reasons,
The Autumn is worst of all.
The Winter is good, be it understood.
For scarcely a single thing:
Although it is prime at the Christmas time
To revel and dance and sing.
It is full of such ills as tradesmen's bills.
And its pleasures are scant and small.
Amongst the seasons, for many good reason
The Winter is worst of all.