And the red, red rose o’er the world I spill;
And my dawns are cool, and my eves are chill;
And don’t I run up the doctor’s bill
For bronchitis and all the rest!”
But Winter said to Summer:
“Earth-lovers best love me:
For I now bring slop instead of snow,
(Which comes in June, or mostly so;)
And roses and noses at Christmas blow,
And the birds their nesting-time don’t know,