Poems (May)/The seasons
THE SEASONS.
Spring is the sweet soul of the shrouded year; Psyche, the butterfly, with painted wings, Forth issuing from the stony lips of death. Summer's a queen, that to the sun's pavilion Comes with rich gifts and odours, and a train Of rainbow-girdled showers, like eastern almas,With tinkling feet all musical with soft bells. Autumn's a stag, that, hunted through the hills By the keen hound-like winds, flies, dropping blood, Or stands at bay in the full pride of beauty. And Winter minds me of some lone, wild bird,That, wandering from the Arctic, makes its nest In solitary fens, seeking for food The red marsh berry, and the mailed buds Of the young, tender branches; or, athirst, Driving its sharp bill through the polished ice Into the wave below. It hath no song, Only a few weird notes; and when the sun Melts into lucid pools the snow that lies In the rock crevices, it will go north With the white water-fowl, that trooping fly, In ranked battalions, through the gates of March.