  Grim Winter rose and girded on his sword To battle with the world. At each swift blow The wind hissed cold, and at the sound abhorred Birds ceased their singing and the river’s flow Stayed in its course, the sun’s warm glow Reached not the flowers through the air’s dark frown, The last leaves perished, and the crystal snow Paled the soft bosom of the earth so brown And all her pulsing life was frozen down. Within Time’s wondrous palace of past years Nature sat grieving on her ancient throne; Her furrowed cheeks were wet with scalding tears, And from her wrinkled mouth ’scaped many a moan; For she was brooding on delights long flown, When all was bright and happy and the land Flourished in fruitfulness, and there was known No sign of sorrow, ere stern Winter’s hand Gave right of spoil to all his ruthless band. “Ah me!” she cried aloud in accents sad, “That ever son of Time should work such woe, And he of all the offspring I have had, The eldest, unto whom my love did go Like streams that meadow margins overflow With rainy surfeit for the thirsty earth; Whom I had hoped from childhood would upgrow Rich in high thought, bold deed and noble worth, And yet Woe’s curse fell on him from his birth.” In simple beauty Spring knelt gently down, Kissed the sad tears from Nature’s care-worn face, Smoothed from her thoughtful brow each troublous frown With tender hands, that left of pain no trace, And then upstood in modest maiden grace, Saying: “Behold! mine hour hath come to me; I go to make my love a resting-place Against his coming from beyond the sea— A throne most fitting for his sovereignty.” So Spring walked forth into the icy cold, And as her first soft footfall touched the earth, A joyous thrill on everything took hold, And from the spot a snowdrop white had birth; Then a bold robin piped across the dearth Of frozen land a loud defiant sound; Then Winter knew his power was little worth, And sped him forth to higher vantage ground, With all his yelling rout fast flying round. The birds set up a chorus of glad song, Watching their nests among the shady trees; Insects in quick innumerable throng Made live the earth and air; gold-laden bees Scorned the fine butterflies that flew at ease Among the blossomed beauties of the fields; The strong young leaves defied the assaulting breeze, Spreading the brightness of their verdant shields To guard the nurseling fruit that Autumn yields. Where the thin moonbeams cast their joys along A verdured vale of rapturous delight Spring caught the echoes of the herald’s song, And saw the flowerets in the dead of night Lift up their watchful faces, glad and bright, And heard the birds soft singing through the shade, Singing for Summer and the morning light; Then sank her soul within her, and afraid, She watched the circuit that the fast moon made. As Death, unseen, poised high his vengeful dart, And Nature knelt beside Spring’s fallen form, Night’s outer curtain ’gan to wave and part Before the sun’s first breath, so bright and warm; The diamond dew to rainbows did transform, The flowers raised up their heads to their full height, The breeze bore on its wings a music storm As every bird sang forth in full delight And loudest strain the sighings of the night. And Spring, revived a little, moved her head, And to her mother said, in accents mild: “Before he comes, alas! I may be dead. O hasten to him, mother, for thy child, And give him this, I plucked it in the wild, And tell him ere King Death his mantle throws I would he kissed my lips, and on me smiled. O haste thee, mother mine! take this white rose, And bid him come my dying eyes to close.” With her last word the golden door swung free, A blaze of sunshine scattered all the gloom, Sweet music rolled in a voluptuous sea, The radiant air was filled with scent and bloom, And Summer stood, the bravest-hearted groom That ever bride had waited for and won; But Spring lay like an image on a tomb, Her too-short pilgrimage already done, Her blue eyes closed, her latest breath begun: And as her soul forsook its frail abode, Golden-haired Summer, with a cry of pain, Across the threshold of Time’s palace strode, With tears that fell in showers like to rain, Calling on Spring to come to life again. But tears could not disturb her last repose, And all the calling of his heart was vain. Summer still thinks of Spring—his grief he shows, When golden raindrops fall upon the rose. |
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