Poems (Edwards)/The Voice of the Seasons
THE VOICE OF THE SEASONS.
"I come, I come," said the bright young Spring;
And her step was free and light,
As she flung o'er the earth a garland, wreathed
With flowers, all red and white;
She threw a mantle of living green,
O'er mountain, hill, and dale:
She waked the birds, and their anthems sweet
Made vocal the winding vale;
She decked the hills and valleys wide,
And gardens with flowerets sweet,
And they sparkled out like precious gems,—
All glittering at our feet;
She clothed the world in rich array;—
But I heard a sad sweet tone,
"I am passing away;" I looked, and lo!
The lovely Spring was gone.
And her step was free and light,
As she flung o'er the earth a garland, wreathed
With flowers, all red and white;
She threw a mantle of living green,
O'er mountain, hill, and dale:
She waked the birds, and their anthems sweet
Made vocal the winding vale;
She decked the hills and valleys wide,
And gardens with flowerets sweet,
And they sparkled out like precious gems,—
All glittering at our feet;
She clothed the world in rich array;—
But I heard a sad sweet tone,
"I am passing away;" I looked, and lo!
The lovely Spring was gone.
"I come, I come," cried the Summer-time,
"Make room, make room for me;"
And the green wheat doffed his verdant robe,
And waved like a golden sea;
"I come to ripen the harvest fields,
And work while yet 'tis day,
But my task is done, my time is brief,
And I must soon away;"
I saw the Summer enthroned on the storm,
The tempest I trembling heard,
And the winds swept by on their rushing wings,
Fulfilling their Maker's word;
But the storm was hushed, and the tempest died
Away in a muffled moan;
"I am passing away," I looked again,
And the Summer-time was gone.
"Make room, make room for me;"
And the green wheat doffed his verdant robe,
And waved like a golden sea;
"I come to ripen the harvest fields,
And work while yet 'tis day,
But my task is done, my time is brief,
And I must soon away;"
I saw the Summer enthroned on the storm,
The tempest I trembling heard,
And the winds swept by on their rushing wings,
Fulfilling their Maker's word;
But the storm was hushed, and the tempest died
Away in a muffled moan;
"I am passing away," I looked again,
And the Summer-time was gone.
"I come, I come," said the Autumn chill,
"Make room, make room for me,
I blast each flower in garden and bower,
And wither the grass on the lea:
I come with seared and falling leaves,
With a sad and mournful breath,
Repeating, as slowly I pass along,
Prepare, prepare for death;"
And Autumn stood with his pensive look,
Casting the dead leaves down,
And uttered his warning voice to all,
In a sad and solemn sound;
He breathed on the mountains and valleys deep
The breath of a swift decay,
And leaves, and flowers, and warbling birds,—
All fled, like a dream, away.
"Make room, make room for me,
I blast each flower in garden and bower,
And wither the grass on the lea:
I come with seared and falling leaves,
With a sad and mournful breath,
Repeating, as slowly I pass along,
Prepare, prepare for death;"
And Autumn stood with his pensive look,
Casting the dead leaves down,
And uttered his warning voice to all,
In a sad and solemn sound;
He breathed on the mountains and valleys deep
The breath of a swift decay,
And leaves, and flowers, and warbling birds,—
All fled, like a dream, away.
Stern Winter then trod the frozen hills,
And his step was proud and high,
And the tall trees bowed with trembling awe
As he passed in fury by;
I heard a sound like a funeral knell
Fall sadly on my ear,
I turned to look, and lo! I stood
On the grave of the buried year;
We are passing away with the seasons too,
We bloom and die like them—
We all do fade, as a leaf that fades,
And falls from its parent stem;
We are passing away like the changing year,
To slumber 'neath death's cold wave;
Our march is onward, and onward still,
To the dark and dreamless grave.
And his step was proud and high,
And the tall trees bowed with trembling awe
As he passed in fury by;
I heard a sound like a funeral knell
Fall sadly on my ear,
I turned to look, and lo! I stood
On the grave of the buried year;
We are passing away with the seasons too,
We bloom and die like them—
We all do fade, as a leaf that fades,
And falls from its parent stem;
We are passing away like the changing year,
To slumber 'neath death's cold wave;
Our march is onward, and onward still,
To the dark and dreamless grave.