  I caught the changes of the year In soft and fragile nets of song, For you to whom my days belong. For you to whom each day is dear Of all the high processional throng, I caught the changes of the year In soft and fragile nets of song. And here some sound of beauty, here Some note of ancient, ageless wrong Reshaping as my lips were strong, I caught the changes of the year In soft and fragile nets of song, For you to whom my days belong. IThe spring is passing through the land In web of ghostly green arrayed, And blood is warm in man and maid. The arches of desire have spanned The barren ways, the debt is paid, The spring is passing through the land In web of ghostly green arrayed. Sweet scents along the winds are fanned From shadowy wood and secret glade Where beauty blossoms unafraid, The spring is passing through the land In web of ghostly green arrayed And blood is warm in man and maid. IIProud insolent June with burning lips Holds riot now from sea to sea, And shod in sovran gold is she. To the full flood of reaping slips The seeding-tide by God’s decree, Proud insolent June with burning lips Holds riot now from sea to sea. And all the goodly fellowships Of bird and bloom and beast and tree Are gallant of her company— Proud insolent June with burning lips Holds riot now from sea to sea, And shod in sovran gold is she. IIIThe loaded sheaves are harvested, The sheep are in the stubbled fold, The tale of labour crowned is told. The wizard of the year has spread A glory over wood and wold, The loaded sheaves are harvested, The sheep are in the stubbled fold. The yellow apples and the red Bear down the boughs, the hazels hold No more their fruit in cups of gold. The loaded sheaves are harvested, The sheep are in the stubbled fold, The tale of labour crowned is told. IVThe year is lapsing into time Along a deep and songless gloom, Unchapleted of leaf or bloom. And mute between the dusk and prime The diligent earth resets her loom,— The year is lapsing into time Along a deep and songless gloom. While o’er the snows the seasons chime Their golden hopes to reillume The brief eclipse about the tomb, The year is lapsing into time Along a deep and songless gloom Unchapleted of leaf or bloom. VNot wise as cunning scholars are, With curious words upon your tongue, Are you for whom my song is sung. But you are wise of cloud and star, And winds and boughs all blossom-hung, Not wise as cunning scholars are, With curious words upon your tongue. Surely, clear child of earth, some far Dim Dryad-haunted groves among, Your lips to lips of knowledge clung— Not wise as cunning scholars are, With curious words upon your tongue, Are you for whom my song is sung. |
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