I Winter is white on turf and tree, And birds are fled; But summer songsters pipe to me, And petals spread, For what I dreamt of secretly His lips have said! II O 'tis a fine May morn, they say, And blooms have blown; But wild and wintry is my day, My birds make moan; For he who vowed leaves me to pay Alone--alone!
Always Mine! No more Vacation! Term of Light this Day begun! Failless as the fair rotation Of the Seasons and the Sun. Old the Grace, but new the Subjects Old, indeed, the East, Yet upon His Purple Programme Every Dawn, is first.
The Mountain sat upon the Plain In his tremendous Chair -- His observation omnifold, His inquest, everywhere -- The Seasons played around his knees Like Children round a sire -- Grandfather of the Days is He Of Dawn, the Ancestor --
I If seasons all were summers, And leaves would never fall, And hopping casement-comers Were foodless not at all, And fragile folk might be here That white winds bid depart; Then one I used to see here Would warm my wasted heart! II One frail, who, bravely tilling Long hours in gripping gusts, Was mastered by their chilling, And now his ploughshare rusts. So savage winter catches The breath of limber things, And what I love he snatches, And what I love not, brings.