“Do you hate them as we do?” asked Summer.
The Prince of Spring raised his young face and looked at them as though his thoughts were far away. Then he said: “Men? They cause me no pain.”
“I think that is one of your green lies,” sneered Winter.
But Spring looked away before him with his moist and dreamy eyes, plucked harder at the strings and answered:
“See, when I come to the valley and touch the strings of my lute and sing to it and the flowers spring up from the mould: then the wailing relaxes in men’s hearts even as in the cold ground. Then they sing and flourish and thrive and laugh; and love is kindled in their thoughts; and their souls rejoice.”
The three looked at Spring in amazement, but he continued:
“There was an old, old man, when last I came to the valley. His hair was white and his eyes dim. His hands groped helplessly before him; and his legs could scarcely bear him. His daughter died in Summer’s passionate hours; his sons dropped dead while gathering Autumn’s crops. His wife closed her eyes under your wrath, O mighty Winter! But, when I stood in the valley and plucked at the strings of my lute, suddenly he straightened his crooked back and his eyes recovered their fire: ‘The woods are turning green!’ he said. And he went out and ran on his shaking legs after my flowers and listened to my song and joined with the others in my green gladness.”
He ceased. Not one of the three princes answered him. Long they sat silent and looked out over the earth.
And evening fell and night. The moon shone upon the snow-clad mountain, Summer’s roses shed their scent, Autumn’s motley cloak flapped in the wind, Spring plucked at the strings of his lute and hummed softly to its music.