Now when the storms have driven out the cold
The Spring comes in with buds in tender sheaf
The Spring comes in with buds, the Winter flown,
The Winter fled and dead -- the May will fold
Around us the soft clothing we have known
In dreams of Joy when Calm lulled storm and leaf
The lurking showers patter down the May
And wash to glory all the yellow gleam
That loves with light and gold and greens to play
On bole and bough and spray --
But after Summer, Autumn's quiet beam
Comes, and the West Wind, and the skies are grey--
And then the leaves grow heavy, the soul grows old,
Old as an age within a little day,
When once they see the doubtful dim extreme,
When belfries of the Winter once have tolled
The knells of death, then dross is all their gold.