THE SEASONS.

The Spring, she is a tricky sprite.
We hail her advent with delight.
She comes, in tender green arrayed,
With smiles and frowns,—this merry maid,—
    And airy; fairy tread.
She taps the flow’rets in the grass,
Just peeping up to watch her pass;
"Sleepers, awake!" she gaily cries;
But ere they open wide their eyes
    The laughing sprite has fled.

And now a calmer maid is seen,
Arrayed in robes of golden sheen,
Who moves with Summer’s languorous grace,
And holds the earth in love’s embrace,
    With warm and kindly glance.
And o’er green fields and rippling stream
She throws anon a golden gleam;
Where’er she waves her magic wand,
She sends a gladness o’er the land
    That causes hearts to dance.

Then Autumn comes, with sober tread,
And puts the little flowers to bed;
She works away with right good will,
Her warning voice comes from the hill,
    "Hark!   Winter’s at the door."
In russet brown she walks along
And leads awhile the reapers’ song:
We join with thankful, cheery voice,
Give thanks to God (while hearts rejoice)
    For daily bread once more.

Now Winter comes, with visage thin,
We take her hand and lead her in;
With kindness thaw her frosty face,
Till e’en in her we see some grace,
    As round the fire we sit,
Recalling thoughts and memories old,—
Of dreary days and days of gold;—
We meet dear friends, not seen for long,
The dark nights pass with mirth and song,
    While hearts are closer knit.

 

Margaret Munroe

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