THE BAD YEAR
MAY, blighted by keen frosts, passed on to JuneNo blooms, but many a stalk with drooping leaves,And arid Summer wilted these full soon,And Autumn gathered up no wealthy sheaves;Plaintive October saddened for the year,But wild November raged that hope was past,Shrieking, "All days of life are made how drear—Mad whirl of snow! and Death comes driving fast."Yet sane December, when the winds fell low,And cold, calm light with sunshine tinkled clear,Hearkened to bells more sweet than long ago,And meditated in a mind sincere:—"Beneath these snows shining from yon red westHow sleep the blooms of some delighted May,And June shall riot, lovely as the bestThat flung their odors forth on all their way:Yes, violet Spring, the balms of her soft breath,Her birdlike voice, the child-joy in her air.Her gentle colors"—sane December saith"They come, they come—O heart, sigh not 'They were.'"
MAY, blighted by keen frosts, passed on to JuneNo blooms, but many a stalk with drooping leaves,And arid Summer wilted these full soon,And Autumn gathered up no wealthy sheaves;Plaintive October saddened for the year,But wild November raged that hope was past,Shrieking, "All days of life are made how drear—Mad whirl of snow! and Death comes driving fast."Yet sane December, when the winds fell low,And cold, calm light with sunshine tinkled clear,Hearkened to bells more sweet than long ago,And meditated in a mind sincere:—"Beneath these snows shining from yon red westHow sleep the blooms of some delighted May,And June shall riot, lovely as the bestThat flung their odors forth on all their way:Yes, violet Spring, the balms of her soft breath,Her birdlike voice, the child-joy in her air.Her gentle colors"—sane December saith"They come, they come—O heart, sigh not 'They were.'"
MAY, blighted by keen frosts, passed on to JuneNo blooms, but many a stalk with drooping leaves,And arid Summer wilted these full soon,And Autumn gathered up no wealthy sheaves;Plaintive October saddened for the year,But wild November raged that hope was past,Shrieking, "All days of life are made how drear—Mad whirl of snow! and Death comes driving fast."Yet sane December, when the winds fell low,And cold, calm light with sunshine tinkled clear,Hearkened to bells more sweet than long ago,And meditated in a mind sincere:—"Beneath these snows shining from yon red westHow sleep the blooms of some delighted May,And June shall riot, lovely as the bestThat flung their odors forth on all their way:Yes, violet Spring, the balms of her soft breath,Her birdlike voice, the child-joy in her air.Her gentle colors"—sane December saith"They come, they come—O heart, sigh not 'They were.'"
MAY, blighted by keen frosts, passed on to June
No blooms, but many a stalk with drooping leaves,
And arid Summer wilted these full soon,
And Autumn gathered up no wealthy sheaves;
Plaintive October saddened for the year,
But wild November raged that hope was past,
Shrieking, "All days of life are made how drear—
Mad whirl of snow! and Death comes driving fast."
Yet sane December, when the winds fell low,
And cold, calm light with sunshine tinkled clear,
Hearkened to bells more sweet than long ago,
And meditated in a mind sincere:—
"Beneath these snows shining from yon red west
How sleep the blooms of some delighted May,
And June shall riot, lovely as the best
That flung their odors forth on all their way:
Yes, violet Spring, the balms of her soft breath,
Her birdlike voice, the child-joy in her air.
Her gentle colors"—sane December saith
"They come, they come—O heart, sigh not 'They were.'"