IV. The Changing Year

(B 838)

11

"All seasons shall be sweet to thee,

Whether the summer clothe the general earth
With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch
Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch
Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eave-drops fall
Heard only in the trances of the blast,

Or if the secret ministry of frost
Shall hang them up in silent icicles,

Quietly shining to the quiet Moon."

The Year

HE crocus, while the days are dark,
Unfolds its saffron sheen;

At April's touch, the crudest bark
Discovers gems of green.

Then sleep the seasons, full of might;
While slowly swells the pod

And rounds the peach, and in the night
The mushroom bursts the sod.

The winter falls; the frozen rut
Is bound with silver bars;

The snow-drift heaps against the hut,

And night is pierced with stars.

Coventry Patmore.

Song of the Year

T

IS a dull sight

To see the year dying,

When winter winds

Set the yellow wood sighing:
Sighing, O sighing!

When such a time cometh,

I do retire

Into an old room

Beside a bright fire:
O, pile a bright fire!

And there I sit

Reading old things,

Of knights and lorn damsels,
While the wind sings-
O, drearily sings!

I never look out

Nor attend to the blast:

For all to be seen

Is the leaves falling fast:
Falling, falling!

But close at the hearth,

Like a cricket, sit I,

Reading of summer
And chivalry-

Gallant chivalrvi

Then with an old friend
I talk of our youth-

How 't was gladsome, but often
Foolish, forsooth:

But gladsome, gladsome!

Or, to get merry,

We sing some old rhyme, That made the wood ring again In summer time

Sweet summer time!

Then go we smoking,

Silent and snug:

Naught passes between us,

Save a brown jug

Sometimes!

And sometimes a tear
Will rise in each eye,
Seeing the two old friends
So merrily-

So merrily!

And ere to bed

Go we, go we,

Down on the ashes

We kneel on the knee,
Praying together!

Thus, then, live I

Till, 'mid all the gloom,

By Heaven! the bold sun
Is with me in the room
Shining, shining!

Then the clouds part,

Swallows soaring between;

The spring is alive,

And the meadows are green!

I jump up, like mad,

Break the old pipe in twain,

And away to the meadows,

The meadows again!

Edward Fitzgerald.