Heralding Winter, wild and white,
While the blithe birds flee before him.
The Prince of Summer stopped where he stood in the valley and raised his eyes to the hills in the West. And the Prince of Autumn took the horn from his mouth and bowed low before him.
“Welcome!” said Summer.
He took a step towards him and no more, as befits one who is the greater. But the Prince of Autumn came down over the hills and again bowed low.
They walked through the valley hand in hand. And so radiant was Summer that, wherever they passed, none was aware of Autumn’s presence. The notes of his horn died away in the air; and one and all recovered from the shudder that had passed over them. The trees and birds and flowers came to themselves again and whispered and sang and fought. The river flowed, the rushes murmured, the bees continued their summer orgy in the heather.
But, wherever the princes stopped on their progress through the valley, it came about that the foliage turned yellow on the side where Autumn was. A little leaf fell from its stalk and fluttered away and dropped at his feet. The nightingale ceased singing, though it was eventide; the cuckoo was silent and flapped restlessly through the woods; the stork stretched himself in his nest and looked towards the South.
But the princes took no heed.
“Welcome!” said Summer again. “Do you remember your promise?”
“I remember,” answered Autumn.