And morning filled their cups with dew.
—OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
Came one by one the seasons, meetly drest.
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First Spring—upon whose head a wreath was set
Of wind-flowers and the yellow violet—
Advanced. Then Summer led his loveliest
Of months, one ever to the minstrel dear
(Her sweet eyes dewy wet),
June, and her sisters, whose brown hands entwine