A SONG OF THE FOUR SEASONS

WHEN Spring comes laughing
By vale and hill,

By wind-flower walking

And daffodil,

Sing stars of morning,

Sing morning skies,

Sing blue of speedwell,—
And my Love's eyes.

When comes the Summer,
Full-leaved and strong,

And gay birds gossip
The orchard long,—
Sing hid, sweet honey
That no bee sips;
Sing red, red roses,-
And my Love's lips.

When Autumn scatters
The leaves again,
And piled sheaves bury

The broad-wheeled wain,

Sing flutes of harvest

Where men rejoice;

Sing rounds of reapers,-
And my Love's voice.

But when comes Winter
With hail and storm,

And red fire roaring

And ingle warm,—

Sing first sad going

Of friends that part; Then sing glad meeting,And my Love's heart.

THE PARADOX OF TIME

(A VARIATION ON RONSARD)

"Le temps s'en va, le temps s'en va, ma dame! Las! le temps non : mais NOUS nous en allons !

TIME goes, you say? Ah no!

Alas, Time stays, we go;

Or else, were this not so, What need to chain the hours, For Youth were always ours? Time goes, you say?—ah no!

Ours is the eyes' deceit
Of men whose flying feet

Lead through some landscape low;

We pass, and think we see

The earth's fixed surface flee :

Alas, Time stays,—we go!

Once in the days of old,

Your locks were curling gold,

And mine had shamed the crow.

Now, in the self-same stage,

We've reached the silver age;

Time goes, you say?—ah no!

Once, when my voice was strong,
I filled the woods with song

To praise your
My bird, that sang, is dead;
Where are your roses fled?
Alas, Time stays,—we go!

66 rose" and "snow

See, in what traversed ways,
What backward Fate delays

The hopes we used to know;
Where are our old desires?——
Ah, where those vanished fires?
Time goes, you say?—ah no!

How far, how far, O Sweet,
The past behind our feet
Lies in the even-glow!
Now, on the forward way,
Let us fold hands, and pray ;
Alas, Time stays,—we go!

TO A GREEK GIRL

WITH

WITH breath of thyme and bees that hum, Across the years you seem to come,— Across the years with nymph-like head, And wind-blown brows unfilleted; A girlish shape that slips the bud

In lines of unspoiled symmetry; A girlish shape that stirs the blood With pulse of Spring, Autonoë!

Where'er you pass,-where'er you go,
I hear the pebbly rillet flow;
Where'er you go,—where'er you pass,
There comes a gladness on the grass;
You bring blithe airs where'er you tread,—
Blithe airs that blow from down and sea;
You wake in me a Pan not dead,—
Not wholly dead!—Autonoë!

How sweet with you on some green sod
To wreathe the rustic garden-god;
How sweet beneath the chestnut's shade
With you to weave a basket-braid;