The Seasons
The crocus, in the shrewd March morn, Thrusts up its saffron spear; And April dots the sombre thorn With gems, and loveliest cheer.
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 white drift heaps against the hut; And night is pierced with stars.