I loved the Winter once with all my soul, And long'd for snow-storms, hail, and mantled skies, And sang their praises in as gay a troll As Troubadours have pour'd to Beauty's eyes.
I deem'd the hard, black frost a pleasant thing, For logs blazed high, and horses' hoofs rung out; And wild birds came with tame and gentle wing, To eat the bread my young hand flung about.
But I have walk'd into the world since then, And seen the bitter work that Cold can do— When the grim Ice King levels babes and men With bloodless spear that pierces through and through.
I know now there are those who sink and lie Upon a stone bed in the dead of night: I know the roofless and unfed must die, When even lips at Plenty's Feast turn white.
And now, whene'er I hear the cuckoo's song, In budding woods, I bless the joyous comer; While my heart runs a cadence in a throng Of hopeful notes, that say, "Thank God for Summer!'
I've learnt that sunshine bringeth more than flowers, And fruits, and forest leaves, to cheer the earth; For I have seen sad spirits, like dark bowers, Light up beneath it with a grateful mirth.
The aged limbs, that quiver in their task Of dragging life on when the bleak winds goad— Taste once again contentment, as they bask In the straight beams that warm their churchyard road.
And Childhood—poor pinch'd Childhood—half forgets The starving pittance of our cottage homes, When he can leave the hearth, and chase the nets Of gossamer that cross him as he roams.
The moping idiot seemeth less distraught, When he can sit upon the grass all day, And laugh and clutch the blades, as though he thought The yellow sun-rays challenged him to play.
Ah gladly now I hail the nightingale, And greet the bee—that merry-going hummer— And when the lilies peep so sweet and pale, I kiss their cheeks, and say, "Thank God for Summer!"
Feet that limp, blue and bleeding, as they go For dainty cresses in December's dawn, Can wade and dabble in the brooklet's flow, And woo the gurgles on a July morn.
The tired pilgrim, who would shrink with dread If Winter's drowsy torpor lull'd his brain, Is free to choose his mossy, summer bed, And sleep his hour or two in some green lane.
Oh! Ice-toothed King, I loved you once—but now I never see you come without a pang Of hopeless pity shadowing my brow, To think how naked flesh must feel your fang.
My eyes watch now to see the elms unfold, And my ears listen to the callow rook; I hunt the palm-trees for their first, rich gold, And pry for violets in the southern nook.
And when fair Flora sends the butterfly, Painted and spangled, as her herald mummer, "Now for warm holidays," my heart will cry, "The poor will suffer less! Thank God for Summer."
