---

The Seasons.

The crocus, in the shrewd March morn,

Thrusts up his saffron spear;

And April dots the sombre thorn

With gems, and loveliest cheer.

Then sleep the seasons, full of might;

While slowly swells the pod,

And rounds the peach, and in the night

The mushroom bursts the sod.

The winter comes: the frozen rut

Is bound with silver bars;

The white drift heaps against the hut;

And night is pierced with stars.

Last modified 6/2/95