Part 1
JANUARY
And look!—the trees their naked trunks are swaying,
As bitterly each blast goes howling by,
And hark!—the music in the hemlocks playing,
Like some lost spirit banished from the sky,
And see the smoke from yonder chimney curling,
Hugs the broad roofs, deep-burden'd with the snow,
While clouds of snow are round the low eaves whirling.
How cold it is!—Come, let us homeward go
There will we find the cheerful fire still burning,
There ruddy warmth will make our faces glow,
And there kind hearts will welcome our returning;
Come!—let us hasten through the drifty snow.
FEBRUARY.
Come walk a mile with me—'Tis February;
The sun is creeping slowly toward the North,
And every breeze to-day seems blithe and merry,
And prophets of the Spring are waking forth—
The hungry ground-hog casts a thin, gray shadow
Beside his open villa, dark and cold,
And the starv'd hare surveys the icy meadow,
And chipmonks chatter in the leafless wold.
And hark!—the blue-jay's fife is sounding shrilly,
And merry chickadees are piping loud,
E'en though the bitter North-wind's breath is chilly,
And the great trees are low before him bow'd;
And see!—the Lady of the South is creeping
Higher and higher—'Tis the hour of noon,
And sad-eyed Winter by yon brook is weeping,—
Yon little brook that sings a pleasant tune.
Yet, as the sun is with the day declining,
Swift, darkening clouds are gathering in the West,
Where the snow-fairies are again designing
Another robe for Nature's barren breast.
MARCH.
Come walk a mile with me—'Tis March and windy,
And Winter's dying breath comes hard and fast,
And hark!—the storm, like death-bells of a Sunday,
Tolls the sad knell upon the icy blast;
Louder and louder now the winds are wailing,
Faster and faster wings the frozen snow,
Darker and darker the cold clouds are sailing,
As the March-storm goes hurrying to and fro.
But see!—the sun above the clouds is creeping,
And look!—soft flakes are falling, one by one,
And Winter, pale in death, lies gently sleeping,
While Spring awakes e'er half the day is done.
And soon the sun, like some great hearth is burning,
Melting the ghosts of Winter on the hills,
And hark!—the robin from the South returning,
Joins the glad music of the murmuring rills,
And now the farmer-boy, whose heart is leaping,
Gathers the sap that sings a merry song,
While the blue-birds sweet melodies are keeping,
And noisy squirrels leap the trees among.
APRIL.
Come walk a mile with me—'Tis April weather;
A voice like Spring is calling: Let us go
Where violets are blooming on the heather,
And song-birds bend the branches to and fro;
For everywhere the very ground is springing,
And everywhere the grass is getting green—
How can I now—how can I keep from singing
When all the world is like a fairy scene!
The buds in all the trees, are ripe for bursting,
And fleecy catkins flutter everywhere,
And every little flower seems a-thirsting
For something sweet and beautiful and fair.
But look!—to Westward—see!—an April shower
Sudden has gathered, darkening the sun,
Yet wait!—beside me lifts a gentle flower,
That lights my pathway, blossoming alone;
And hark!—O hark, the meadow-lark is singing,
Greeting the storm from yon tall maple tree,
While, like a herald in its homeward winging,
Wheels a lone flicker o'er the darkening lea.
MAY
Come walk a mile with me—'Tis merry May-time;
The little lambs are gamboling on the green,—
Nature is glad—it is her hour of playtime,
And now, or never, her true heart is seen;
The butterflies are floating down from heaven,
And humming-birds again are on the wing,—
And the kind swallows, seventy times seven,
Fill all the air with merry murmuring.
And see the lilacs by yon cottage blooming!—
How sweet the air is!—sweetness everywhere,
For look!—rich apple-blossoms are perfuming
This little lane that leads to woodlands fair,—
Here honeysuckle-bells are softly swinging,
And pink azaleas perfume all the wood,
And, in the trees, the vireos are singing
Incessantly their songs of solitude,
While round the hill, as slow our steps are wending,
We hear a sweet Voice calling,—"Come, O come!"
For see!—the sun is in the West decending,
And happy hearts are waiting us at home.
JUNE
Come walk a mile with me—'Tis June,—fair June-day,
And Nature smiles—her magic hands are still,
For not a ripple stirs yon lake at noon-day,
And not a breeze disturbs this woody hill;
But hark!—what idle dreamer there is drumming?
It is—it is a pheasant calling—"Come!"
And listen!—like a low voice sweetly humming
Is heard the brook within its forest home.
But wait!—We cannot wait—'Twill soon be Summer,
So let us now enjoy these days of June,
For hear ye not that late, but welcome comer,
Robert-of-Lincoln carroling his tune;
And see ye not yon oriole high swinging
His basket from that tall and leafy tree—
O Comrade, Comrade!—Time is swiftly winging,—
'Twill not be always June with you and me;
Spring-time is passing—Summer is a-coming,
And soon fair Autumn with her idle dreams,
And then cold Winter, her White hands benumbing
The icy lakes and silent, woodland streams!
O Comrade!—Comrade!—let us not be weary,
But pick life's pretty blossoms while they bloom,
Forgetting every prospect, sad or dreary,
Avoiding every lane that leads to gloom!
For see!—each flower lifts a golden chalice
Inviting us to drink—Shall we pass by,
With faces sad, nor enter this fair palace
That June has rear'd us 'neath a cloudless sky?