Poems (Van Rensselaer)/Her Calendar
For works with similar titles, see Her Calendar.
HER CALENDAR
The twelve moons of the circled yearHave grown from sickle-edge to perfect globe,And waning—pallid, leaf-like, sere—Have died into the dawn. The earth's broad robeHas changed from springtime blossomy green and whiteTo summer's deeper green and gold,To duskier green all broidered with the brightDevices of the autumn trees, to coldAnd shining argent—thenBack to spring's lovely livery again.I know: for on this little moundThree nodding spraysOf saxifrage I found,And after many daysA rosy disk upon the wild-rose bushNear by. Then from a distant boughA red leaf drifted through the evening hush,And then awhile there was no mounded grave,Only a small, small waveIn the immaculate whiteness. NowThe spring has come once more; for, see,The saxifrages bud; and even soAs days and moons and seasons go Here in my little world, so it must beWith the encompassing great world that isMade beautiful but as the temple-court for thisMost sacred treasury.