Three seasons only in his calendar
My love has counted. First came opening spring,
When love put forth, a weak and timid thing,
Shy of the cowslip's nod, or violet's stir.
Then summer caught him with the rush and whir
Of many wings; and proudly caroling,
He brushed the lilies, made the roses swing,
And trod the land a smiling conqueror.
With autumn's fruitage ripened at his feet,
He pauses now. Is this the end of all--
The consummation, boundless and complete?
Or shall the starving raven sound his call
Through days to come, when every leaf shall fall,
And dismal winter's snows and tempest beat?