<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=345175" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The four Seasons of the Year.</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Spring.<br>Another four I've left yet to bring on,<br>Of four times four the last Quaternion,<br>The Winter, Summer, Autumn & the Spring,<br>In season all these Seasons I shall bring:<br>Sweet Spring like man in his Minority,<br>At present claim'd, and had priority.<br>With smiling face and garments somewhat green,<br>She trim'd her locks, which late had frosted been,<br>Nor hot nor cold, she spake, but with a breath,<br>Fit to revive, the nummed earth from death.<br>Three months (quoth she) are 'lotted to my share<br>March, April, May of all the rest most fair.<br>Tenth of the first, Sol into Aries enters,<br>And bids defiance to all tedious winters,<br>Crosseth the Line, and equals night and day,<br>(Stil adds to th'last til after pleasant May)<br>And now makes glad the darkned northern wights<br>Who for some months have seen but starry lights.<br>Now goes the Plow-man to his merry toyle,<br>He might unloose his winter locked soyl:<br>The Seeds-man too, doth lavish out his grain,<br>In hope the more he casts, the more to gain:<br>The Gardner now superfluous branches lops,<br>And poles erects for his young clambring hops.<br>Now digs then sowes his herbs, his flowers & roots<br>And carefully manures his trees of fruits.<br>The Pleiades their influence now give,<br>And all that seem'd as dead afresh doth live.<br>The croaking frogs, whom nipping winter kil'd<br>Like birds now chirp, and hop about the field,<br>The Nightingale, the black-bird and the Thrush<br>Now tune their layes, on sprayes of every bush.<br>The wanton frisking Kid, and soft-fleec'd Lambs<br>Do jump and play before their feeding Dams,<br>The tender tops of budding grass they crop,<br>They joy in what they have, but more in hope:<br>For though the frost hath lost his binding power,<br>Yet many a fleece of snow and stormy shower<br>Doth darken Sol's bright eye, makes us remember<br>The pinching North-west wind of cold December.<br>My second moneth is April, green and fair,<br>Of longer dayes, and a more temperate Air:<br>The Sun in Taurus keeps his residence,<br>And with his warmer beams glanceth from thence<br>This is the month whose fruitful showrs produces<br>All set and sown for all delights and uses:<br>The Pear, the Plum, and Apple-tree now flourish<br>The grass grows long the hungry beast to nourish.<br>The Primrose pale, and azure violet<br>Among the virduous grass hath nature set,<br>That when the Sun on's Love (the earth) doth shine<br>These might as lace set out her garment fine.<br>The fearfull bird his little house now builds<br>In trees and walls, in Cities and in fields.<br>The outside strong, the inside warm and neat;<br>A natural Artificer compleat.<br>The clocking hen her chirping chickins leads<br>With wings & beak defends them from the gleads<br>My next and last is fruitfull pleasant May,<br>Wherein the earth is clad in rich aray,<br>The Sun now enters loving Gemini,<br>And heats us with the glances of his eye,<br>Our thicker rayment makes us lay aside<br>Lest by his fervor we be torrifi'd.<br>All flowers the Sun now with his beams discloses,<br>Except the double pinks and matchless Roses.<br>Now swarms the busy, witty, honey-Bee,<br>VVhose praise deserves a page from more then me<br>The cleanly Huswifes Dary's now in th'prime,<br>Her shelves and firkins fill'd for winter time.<br>The meads with Cowslips, Honey-suckles dight,<br>One hangs his head, the other stands upright:<br>But both rejoyce at th'heavens clear smiling face,<br>More at her showers, which water them a space.<br>For fruits my Season yields the early Cherry,<br>The hasty Peas, and wholsome cool Strawberry.<br>More solid fruits require a longer time,<br>Each Season hath his fruit, so hath each Clime:<br>Each man his own peculiar excellence,<br>But none in all that hath preheminence.<br>Sweet fragrant Spring, with thy short pittance fly<br>Let some describe thee better then can I.<br>Yet above all this priviledg is thine,<br>Thy dayes still lengthen without least decline:<br>Summer.<br>When Spring had done, the Summer did begin,<br>With melted tauny face, and garments thin,<br>Resembling Fire, Choler, and Middle age,<br>As Spring did Air, Blood, Youth in's equipage.<br>Wiping the sweat from of her face that ran,<br>With hair all wet she puffing thus began;<br>Bright June, July and August hot are mine,<br>In'th first Sol doth in crabbed Cancer shine.<br>His progress to the North now's fully done,<br>Then retrograde must be my burning Sun,<br>Who to his southward Tropick still is bent,<br>Yet doth his parching heat but more augment<br>Though he decline, because his flames so fair,<br>Have throughly dry'd the earth, and heat the air.<br>Like as an Oven that long time hath been heat,<br>Whose vehemency at length doth grow so great,<br>That if you do withdraw her burning store,<br>Tis for a time as fervent as before.<br>Now go those frolick Swains, the Shepherd Lads<br>To wash the thick cloth'd flocks with pipes full glad<br>In the cool streams they labour with delight<br>Rubbing their dirty coats till they look white:<br>Whose fleece when finely spun and deeply dy'd<br>With Robes thereof Kings have been dignifi'd.<br>Blest rustick Swains, your pleasant quiet life,<br>Hath envy bred in Kings that were at strife,<br>Careless of worldly wealth you sing and pipe,<br>Whilst they'r imbroyl'd in wars & troubles rise:<br>VVhich made great Bajazet cry out in's woes,<br>Oh happy shepherd which hath not to lose.<br>Orthobulus, nor yet Sebastia great,<br>But whist'leth to thy flock in cold and heat.<br>Viewing the Sun by day, the Moon by night<br>Endimions, Dianaes dear delight,<br>Upon the grass resting your healthy limbs,<br>By purling Brooks looking how fishes swims.<br>If pride within your lowly Cells ere haunt,<br>Of him that was Shepherd then King go vaunt.<br>This moneth the Roses are distil'd in glasses,<br>VVhose fragrant smel all made perfumes surpasses<br>The Cherry, Gooseberry are now in th'prime,<br>And for all sorts of Pease, this is the time.<br>July my next, the hott'st in all the year,<br>The sun through Leo now takes his Career,<br>VVhose flaming breath doth melt us from afar,<br>Increased by the star Canicular.<br>This Month from Julius Cæsar took its name,<br>By Romans celebrated to his fame.<br>Now go the Mowers to their slashing toyle,<br>The Meadowes of their riches to dispoyle,<br>VVith weary strokes, they take all in their way,<br>Bearing the burning heat of the long day.<br>The forks and Rakes do follow them amain,<br>VVhich makes the aged fields look young again.<br>The groaning Carts do bear away this prize.<br>To Stacks and Barns where it for Fodder lyes.<br>My next and last is August fiery hot<br>(For much, the Southward Sun abateth not)<br>This Moneth he keeps with Virgo for a space,<br>The dryed Earth is parched with his face.<br>August of great Augustus took its name,<br>Romes second Emperour of lasting fame,<br>With sickles now the bending Reapers goe<br>The russling tress of terra down to mowe;<br>And bundles up in sheaves, the weighty wheat,<br>Which after Manchet makes for Kings to eat:<br>The Barly, Rye and Pease should first had place,<br>Although their bread have not so white a face.<br>The Carter leads all home with whistling voyce,<br>He plow'd with pain, but reaping doth rejoyce;<br>His sweat, his toyle, his careful wakeful nights,<br>His fruitful Crop abundantly requites.<br>Now's ripe the Pear, Pear-plumb, and Apricock,<br>The prince of plumbs, whose stone's as hard as Rock<br>The Summer seems but short, the Autumn hasts<br>To shake his fruits, of most delicious tasts<br>Like good old Age, whose younger juicy Roots<br>Hath still ascended, to bear goodly fruits.<br>Until his head be gray, and strength be gone.<br>Yet then appears the worthy deeds he'th done:<br>To feed his boughs exhausted hath his sap,<br>Then drops his fruits into the eaters lap.<br>Autumn.<br>Of Autumn moneths September is the prime,<br>Now day and night are equal in each Clime,<br>The twelfth of this Sol riseth in the Line,<br>And doth in poizing Libra this month shine.<br>The vintage now is ripe, the grapes are prest,<br>Whose lively liquor oft is curs'd and blest:<br>For nought so good, but it may be abused,<br>But its a precious juice when well its used.<br>The raisins now in clusters dryed be,<br>The Orange, Lemon dangle on the tree:<br>The Pomegranate, the Fig are ripe also,<br>And Apples now their yellow sides do show.<br>Of Almonds, Quinces, Wardens, and of Peach,<br>The season's now at hand of all and each.<br>Sure at this time, time first of all began,<br>And in this moneth was made apostate Man:<br>For then in Eden was not only seen,<br>Boughs full of leaves, or fruits unripe or green,<br>Or withered stocks, which were all dry and dead,<br>But trees with goodly fruits replenished;<br>Which shews nor Summer, Winter nor the Spring<br>Our Grand-Sire was of Paradice made King:<br>Nor could that temp'rate Clime such difference make,<br>If scited as the most Judicious take.<br>October is my next, we hear in this<br>The Northern winter-blasts begin to hiss.<br>In Scorpio resideth now the Sun,<br>And his declining heat is almost done.<br>The fruitless Trees all withered now do stand,<br>Whose sapless yellow leavs, by winds are fan'd,<br>Which notes when youth and strength have past their prime<br>Decrepit age must also have its time.<br>The Sap doth slily creep towards the Earth<br>There rests, until the Sun give it a birth.<br>So doth old Age still tend unto his grave,<br>Where also he his winter time must have;<br>But when the Sun of righteousness draws nigh,<br>His dead old stock, shall mount again on high.<br>November is my last, for Time doth haste,<br>We now of winters sharpness 'gins to tast.<br>This moneth the Sun's in Sagitarius,<br>So farre remote, his glances warm not us.<br>Almost at shortest is the shorten'd day,<br>The Northern pole beholdeth not one ray.<br>Now Greenland, Groanland, Finland, Lapland, see<br>No Sun, to lighten their obscurity:<br>Poor wretches that in total darkness lye,<br>With minds more dark then is the dark'ned Sky.<br>Beaf, Brawn, and Pork are now in great request,<br>And solid meats our stomacks can digest.<br>This time warm cloaths, full diet, and good fires,<br>Our pinched flesh, and hungry mawes requires:<br>Old, cold, dry Age and Earth Autumn resembles,<br>And Melancholy which most of all dissembles.<br>I must be short, and shorts, the short'ned day,<br>What winter hath to tell, now let him say.<br>Winter.<br>Cold, moist, young flegmy winter now doth lye<br>In swadling Clouts, like new born Infancy<br>Bound up with frosts, and furr'd with hail & snows,<br>And like an Infant, still it taller grows;<br>December is my first, and now the Sun<br>To th'Southward Tropick, his swift race doth run:<br>This moneth he's hous'd in horned Capricorn,<br>From thence he 'gins to length the shortned morn,<br>Through Christendome with great Feastivity,<br>Now's held, (but ghest) for blest Nativity.<br>Cold frozen January next comes in,<br>Chilling the blood and shrinking up the skin;<br>In Aquarius now keeps the long wisht Sun,<br>And Northward his unwearied Course doth run:<br>The day much longer then it was before,<br>The cold not lessened, but augmented more.<br>Now Toes and Ears, and Fingers often freeze,<br>And Travellers their noses sometimes leese.<br>Moist snowie February is my last,<br>I care not how the winter time doth haste.<br>In Pisces now the golden Sun doth shine,<br>And Northward still approaches to the Line,<br>The Rivers 'gin to ope, the snows to melt,<br>And some warm glances from his face are felt;<br>Which is increased by the lengthen'd day,<br>Until by's heat, he drive all cold away,<br>And thus the year in Circle runneth round:<br>Where first it did begin, in th'end its found.<br>My Subjects bare, my Brain is bad, <br>Or better Lines you should have had: <br>The first fell in so nat'rally, <br>I knew not how to pass it by;<br>The last, though bad I could not mend, <br>Accept therefore of what is pen'd, <br>And all the faults that you shall spy <br>Shall at your feet for pardon cry.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Anne+Bradstreet">Anne Bradstreet</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=345175" data-title="The four Seasons of the Year. de Anne Bradstreet" data-description="Spring. Another four I've left yet to bring on, Of four times four the last Quaternion, The Winter, Summer, Autumn & the Spring, In season all these Seasons I shall bring: Sweet Spring like man in his Minority, At present claim'd, and had priority..."></div> </div> </div>

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