I Chide Not At The Seasons
I chide not at the seasons, for if Spring
With backward look refuses to be fair,
My Love still more than April makes me sing,
And shows May blossom in the bleak March air.
Should Summer fail its tryst, or June delay
To wreathe my porch with roses red and pale,
Her breath is sweeter than the new-mown hay,
Her touch more clinging than the woodbine's trail.
Let Autumn like a spendthrift waste the year,
And reap no harvest save the fallen leaves,
My Love still ripeneth, though she grows not sere,
And smiles enthroned upon our piled-up sheaves.
And last, when miser Winter docks the days,
She warms my hearth and keeps my hopes ablaze.
poem by Alfred Austin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Life Is Lovely All the Year
When the buds are blossoming,
Smiling welcome to the spring,
Lovers choose a wedding day -
Life is love in merry May!
Spring is green - Fal lal la!
Summer's rose - Fal lal la!
It is sad when Summer goes,
Fal la!
Autumn's gold - Fal lal la!
Winter's grey - Fal lal la!
Winter still is far away -
Fal la!
Leaves in Autumn fade and fall;
Winter is the end of all.
Spring and summer teem with glee:
Spring and summer, then, for me!
Fal la!
In the Spring-time seed is sown:
In the Summer grass is mown:
In the Autumn you may reap:
Winter is the time for sleep.
Spring is hope - Fal lal la!
Summer's joy - Fal lal la!
Spring and Summer never cloy,
Fal la!
Autumn, toil - Fal lal la!
Winter, rest - Fal lal la!
Winter, after all, is best -
Fal la!
Spring and summer pleasure you,
Autumn, ay, and winter, too -
Every season has its cheer;
Life is lovely all the year!
Fal la!
poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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Nature's Season's
Season's come and season's go,
There are four in each year,
Of our time keeping.
Spring,
Summer,
Autumn,
Winter,
In other parts of the world,
Their season's are called something else,
Each Season is,
Of different type,
Yet,
Two and Two,
To begin and become,
Spring shows the begining,
Of growth and new season,
So for plants,
Vegetation,
Spring Chickens,
Spring Lambs,
The Calflings,
The Fouls,
All come in the Spring,
And flourish in the Summer,
Summer shows bloom,
From the plants to the Fouls,
And all are seen in full bloom,
Even the birds and the bees,
Sing the songs,
Of spring and summer,
With the Sun's rays,
That shows nature,
In full bloom,
By the time,
All is in full bloom,
And what shows and blooms,
Blossoms all summer,
And just when we are relaxed,
And see no clouds in the sky,
The seson changes,
Beginning with,
The fall,
Autumn's,
Season,
Commences to begin,
Where,
All in bloom,
Falls away and decays,
While the rest,
Fly away,
And,
Migrate,
Or,
Hibernate,
And just when,
We have seen it all disappear,
The frost and snow,
Covers all over,
And chills the air,
Where the chilling effect,
Kills off all decay,
And the blue ice time period,
Takes over for a time,
Chilling,
Freeezing,
Keeping everything beneath the earth,
As winter sets itself right in,
And far beneath the froasted earth,
Is all in nature,
Rekindling itself,
To regrowth itself,
And then spring growth,
Again,
Next season,
That starts the circle of life,
2 x 2 = 4,
The four seasons,
Of,
Our circle of life,
Spring,
Summer,
Autumn,
Winter,
The four seasons,
Of ours,
That is 2 x 2,
Spring and Summer,
Then,
Autumn and Winter,
That makes it known,
As 4 seasons,
To us all.
poem by Ellen Ni Bheachain
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Song Of The Desert Lark
Love, love, in vain
We count the days of Spring.
Lost is all love's pain,
Lost the songs we sing.
Sunshine and Summer rain,
Winter and Spring again
Still the years shall bring,
But we die.
Love, what a noon
Of happy love was ours!
Grief came too soon,
Touched the Autumn flowers,
Grief and the doubt of death,
Mixed with the roses' breath.
Darkly the Winter lowers,
And we die.
His torch, love, the Sun
Turns to the stormy West,
Like a fair dream begun
Changing to jest.
Love, while our souls are one,
Still let us sing the Sun,
Sing and forget the rest
And so die.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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The Lover’s Song
When Winter hoar no longer holds
The young year in his gripe,
And bleating voices fill the folds,
And blackbirds pair and pipe;
Then coax the maiden where the sap
Awakes the woodlands drear,
And pour sweet wildflowers in her lap,
And sweet words in her ear.
For Springtime is the season, sure,
Since Love's game first was played,
When tender thoughts begin to lure
The heart of April maid,
Of maid,
The heart of April maid.
When June is wreathed with wilding rose,
And all the buds are blown,
And O, 'tis joy to dream and doze
In meadows newly mown;
Then take her where the graylings leap,
And where the dabchick dives,
Or where the bees in clover reap
The harvest for their hives.
For Summer is the season when,
If you but know the way,
A maid that's kissed will kiss again,
Then pelt you with the hay,
The hay,
Then pelt you with the hay.
When sickles ply among the wheat,
Then trundle home the sheaves,
And there's a rustling of the feet
Through early-fallen leaves;
Entice her where the orchard glows
With apples plump and tart,
And tell her plain the thing she knows,
And ask her for her heart.
For Autumn is the season, boy,
To gather what we sow:
If you be bold, she won't be coy,
Nor ever say you no,
Say no,
Nor ever say you no.
When woodmen clear the coppice lands,
And arch the hornbeam drive,
And stamp their feet, and chafe their hands,
To keep their blood alive;
Then lead her where, when vows are heard,
The church-bells peal and swing,
And, as the parson speaks the word,
Then on her clap the ring.
For Winter is a cheerless time
To live and lie alone;
But what to him is snow or rime,
Who calls his love his own,
His own,
Who calls his love his own?
poem by Alfred Austin
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Last Days of Summer
Whatever the way the summer days end,
In the type of summer is how it has been,
Whether a good one or bad one,
The last days of summer,
Can be sad or happy endings,
As each season ends,
With another one beginning,
The summer could have been,
Miserable yet,
Sun scorching us everyday,
And sunlight shining on all our faces,
It is how it is,
Out there where all is seen,
In,
Summer days of fun,
Summer days of love,
Summer days of seeing,
Summer days of been,
Out and about where summer is,
And when summer came and went?
With a mundane feeling that it left?
Was the last days of summer,
And the begining of another,
Autumn as we know it,
Fall in other places,
Where the ending of one season shows,
By the decaying of it,
When Autumn Fall shows,
Where we will wrap up and snuggle,
With warm cuppas drinks,
With a book,
Or,
Catch up on watching films,
Yet,
Still,
Musing over the summer days,
Of sunshine memories,
Now,
Warm hats and gloves,
With rustle leaves,
That rustle beneath,
Our feet as we walk,
Through the park,
And see,
The summer leaves turn,
To autumn shades,
Taking in,
The last days of summer,
Reflecting,
And remember,
The falls of Autumn's,
Is the signs of summer,
That has ended,
And minglings with,
All that falls,
From the summer ending,
To autumn beginnings,
Is the,
Decaying,
Of summer,
To regrow itself,
For next season's of summer,
When it begins again,
Yet,
In between,
There's,
Autumn,
Winter,
Spring,
Till,
Again,
Last days of summer,
And all in bloom again.
poem by Ellen Ni Bheachain
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If you were mine, if you were mine,
`If you were mine, if you were mine,
The day would dawn, the stars would shine,
The sun would set, the moon arise,
In holier and yet heavenlier skies.
Then unto me the Year would bring
A younger April, fresher Spring.
I should not then seek sylvan ways
For primrose clusters, woodbine sprays,
To hear the mavis' matin tale,
Or nocturn of the nightingale.
For at your coming there would pass
A glow, a glory, o'er the grass,
The flowers would in your gaze rejoice,
The wildwood carol in your voice,
Returning gleam chase lingering gloom,
And life be never out of bloom,
If you were mine!
`If you were mine, I should not know
In what fair month the roses blow,
When the pure lily bares her brow,
Or ringdoves coo their nuptial vow.
For, with your hand soft-clasped in mine,
I still should smell the eglantine,
And, wheresoe'er our steps should stray,
The incense of the new-mown hay.
By restless wave or restful mere,
In wanderings far or wanderings near,
On cheerful down, in pensive glen,
It would be always Summer then,
If you were mine.
`If you were mine, I should not fear
The warnings of the waning year,
The garnering sickle, girdled sheaf,
The falling acorn, floating leaf,
Moisture of eve and haze of morn,
Pearls turned to rubies on the thorn,
The silvering tress on fading brow,
The dimples that are furrows now.
For, leaving summits once I clomb,
With you, would seem but wending home.
Leaning on love in life's decline,
More sweet the shadow than the shine,
The cushat's perch than swallow's wing,
And Autumn peace than pomp of Spring,
If you were mine.
`If you were mine, how then should I
Heed frozen fallow, churlish sky,
Bleak, songless branches, sapless rind,
The wailing of the homeless wind,
The dwindling days, the deepening snow,
The dull, dead weight of wintry woe?
For, harkening to the Christmas peal
Without, our hearts within would feel,
In glowing rafter, flickering blaze,
The sunshine of departed days,
And round the hearth dear memories swarm
To keep life young, to keep love warm,
If you were mine.'
`Yet you are mine, yes, you are mine.
No length of land, no breadth of brine,
Can keep whom spirit links, apart,
Or make an exile of the heart.
And when from soul, no more the thrall
Of sense, the fleshly fetters fall,
And, purified by combats past,
Long-martyred love is crowned at last,
You then before the Heavenly Throne
Will take my hand, nor blush to own,
That you were mine!'
When June is wreathed with wilding rose
When June is wreathed with wilding rose,
And all the buds are blown,
And O, 'tis joy to dream and doze
In meadows newly mown,
Go take her where the graylings leap,
And where the dabchick dives,
Or where the bees from clover reap
The harvest for their hives;
For Summer is the season when,
If you but know the way,
A maid that's kissed will kiss again,
And pelt you with the hay,
The hay,
And pelt you with the hay.
poem by Alfred Austin
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Unbroken cycle. for M lady Ernestine
Englyn Prost Dalgron.
Seasons come and seasons go.
Summer sun or winter snow.
That is all we need to know.
Winter is replaced by spring.
Summer ripens everything.
Autumn will the harvest bring.
When the harvests gathered in
Safely stored in box and bin
Then the winter will begin.
Nature brooks no argument.
She carries out her intent.
With or without our consent.
Spring, Summer and Autumn too.
Each has its own job to do.
Perfectly planned in my view.
Monday,11 January 2010
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Seasonal Greetings
March, April and May,
hail a brand new day,
for the three months of spring,
mark a brand new beginning,
as buds and bulbs start to bloom,
giving the garden a delightful boon.
The birds start their singing,
the bees start their honey making,
so for those who are down in heart,
remember this is a time for fresh starts,
so go out and find something new,
for your dreams could come true.
June, July and August,
A time when we all must,
remember our love for him or her,
to feel the real warmth of the summer,
embrace the hot sunshine,
during this summertime,
we can gather a collection,
of love and affection,
creating a happy heated haze,
to match those summer days,
a wishful romantic bliss,
combined with the mid-summer solstice.
September, October and November,
A time when orchards remember,
their nurtured fruit, such as a pear or plum,
sweetening the three months of autumn,
while farmers gather barley, corn and wheat,
confectioners create comfits to eat.
Fruiters and orchardists do toil,
planting more seed in the soil,
so that next year’s harvest,
can put our taste-buds to the test,
proving autumn is the season,
to see us through winter’s cold reason.
In December, January and February,
wrapping up in scarves is usually necessary,
for the harsh months of winter,
can pierce us like a splinter,
making our breath come out in misty puffs,
forcing us to wear silly hats and ear-muffs.
Winter greets us with crisp white frost,
giving the green grass an icy gloss,
causing the papergirl to give her round a skip,
and makes the postman skid, slide and slip,
but laughing at them warms me and you,
even though we’re cold and blue.
poem by Dale Mullock
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Greeting Us With A New Surprise
After the March winds
we have the April rain.
Now in May we watch
the pretty flows grow.
June, July and August
are the flowering seasons
at the height of the noonday’s sun.
September brings the autumn leaves
near the closing of the year.
October seems to bear all
as the autumn leaves begin to fall.
November brings a chill
to every living thing
announcing winter is on its way.
December’s snow blankets
the hard frozen ground.
January brings in a new year
to February’s valentines.
And so each moth rolls by,
each greeting us with a new surprise.
23-24 May 2008
poem by David Harris
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Love Has Its Seasons
A cool chill sweeps through the air
winter is approaching
soon the grass will have a blanket of white
nights will get longer
then soon it will be over for another year.
Spring will be with us
new growth will spring up from the ground
the days will get warmer
when summer once again appears
spreading its colours everywhere.
Then it is back into autumn once more
and the chilly air that it brings.
Love has its seasons also to share
sometimes it can be frosty
and winter chills fill the air
it can be cold
like the white blanket of snow.
Love can be like spring
imparting new life as it begins to grow.
The glow that if offers
is like the warming summer sun
that blossoms into beauty
before the ravages of autumn come
and the years trickle away.
poem by David Harris
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Blossom Friend
Black days of winter all were through
The blossoms came and they brought you
Clouds left the sky
And I knew the reason why
They made way for you and the blossom.
The seasons cycle turned again
An april shower now and then
Trees came alive
And the bees left their hive
They came out to see you and the blossom.
People were laughing, smiling with the sun
They knew that summer had begun.
The nights grew warm, the days grew long
Spring turned to summer and was gone
It seemed so fine
All the cider and the wine
But I knew youd go with the blossom.
When spring returns Ill look again
To find another blossom friend
Until I do
Find something new
Ill just think of you and the blossom.
song performed by by Nick Drake
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Autumn Falling Leaves
When all have been and gone away,
Like leaves from green to amber orange,
Falling down and to decay,
Is the time for all in nature to fall,
And the leaves on the trees show it all,
Autumn and its falls of fall,
Where all the branches have dropped their leaves,
All have gone except the evergreens,
Showing signs to us that live among,
Four seasons weather,
Where Autumn is,
Just like in life,
When full circle of life is known,
A start in spring where buds appear,
Then in summer full bloom trees will be,
Hence, fall shows all,
When nature falls,
Begining another season,
Winter and chill tempetures,
Where nature decays,
And leaves do fall,
To generate again,
Renewing its life,
Come spring again,
Untill then,
Autumn sheads its leaves of blossom and blooms,
And soon again autumn begins,
From new to old,
And then old to new,
Buds in spring and leaves of green,
Showing birth from what did decayed,
And brought forth from,
What was bear on the trees,
From where beneath was where once,
Those Autumn falling leaves.
poem by Ellen Ni Bheachain
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My Pains In Spring
My pains have four seasons
A spring, an autumn, a winter and a summer.
My spring triumphs over the rest.
In the spring of my pains
I am surrounded by smiles of sweet pathos within
And in my garden the blossoming pains flutter in the morning.
In the autumn of my pains
I am preceded by the hills of hopes mounted
And in my groves the pale pathos shed tears in the noon.
In the winter of my pains
I am hidden by the mist of dejected aims
And on my snow hills the sliding glaciers ensure a fall in the evening.
In the summer of pains
I am blasted by the heat waves of scattered dreams
And on my anvil of my poetry new lines are made.
I like my spring of pains
For I too have a human heart
And my garden of dreams will ever be there.....
poem by M.d Dinesh Nair
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Autumn Violets
Keep love for youth, and violets for the spring:
Of if these bloom when worn-out autumn grieves,
Let them lie hid in double shade of leaves,
Their own, and others dropped down withering;
For violets suit when home birds build and sing,
Not when the outbound bird a passage cleaves;
Not with dry stubble of mown harvest sheaves,
But when the green world buds to blossoming.
Keep violets for the spring, and love for youth,
Love that should dwell with beauty, mirth, and hope:
Or if a later sadder love be born,
Let this not look for grace beyond its scope,
But give itself, nor plead for answering truth—
A grateful Ruth tho' gleaning scanty corn.
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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Is that spring going to come?
When March was sleeping, two other
Gentlemen began rather
A heated argument. The 1st
Was April, the 2nd, of course,
Was May. So, April and May
Were both crying that the main
Month of spring was… Guess which one, but
Although March was in the hut
(Number 2, there’re four huts all
In all) , you should choose April or
May. April said, “It’s my time when
Snow-drops begin to bloom, and
Everyone can feel spring’s come.”
“Ha-ha! ” laughed May and added, “Some
Snowstorm, and no one can
See your tiny snow-drops. When
I rule nature, all the trees are
In blossom and bushes too! ”
“But
Unless I melted snow, they
Couldn’t blossom, my brother May, ”
April objected.
“Unless I…
Wow! You can melt snow, guy!
So, it isn’t the sun that
Does it! ” mocked May.
“I can laugh at
Your conceit, May. For example, March thinks
You and June are as like as two peas, ”
April said.
“ I don’t care, ”
May replied, “A brown bear
Sleeps less than this sleepyhead! ”
“Are
You about my best friend March? ”
Somebody cried outside, and
February came in. “Well, when
Is he gonna wake up? ” he said.
“Answer one question, and we’ll let
You wake him up, ” April and May
Stopped February on his way
To March’s bed, “Which of us is
The main spring month? Feb, tell us, please! ”
“What a question! No doubt,
It’s March. Until he gets out
With me, spring won’t begin, and
Winter will continue more than
Ninety days. But I’m not gonna
Work any longer. I wanna
Enjoy my holiday. Now
Let me wake him. Oh! How
Long I’ve been waiting for it! ” cried
February, but at the sight
Of their faces he laughed, “What’s
Happened? Ha-ha! You think it was
A bad idea to ask me,
Don’t you? ”
“We’ll never agree
With you! ! ! First of all March is your
Friend! ” April waxed indignant.
“First? ”
February smiled, “And what else?
Time’s flying! ”
“Nobody says
You and March differ too much! ”
It was May, “And… And there is such
A thing as politeness, if you
Talk with a host! ”
“If I should
Forget about March because
He’s sleeping, I can’t. Well, I’ve lost
My patience! If you wanna be
The main, you can be, but let me
Wake March as it isn’t a leap
Year now! My time’s up! Keep
On arguing but without
Us as we’re getting out! ”
February caught his sleepy friend,
Then said, “Bye-bye! ” and out he went.
poem by Konstantin Ananin
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An Autumn—Blooming Rose
I found, and plucked, an autumn-blooming rose,
And shut my eyes, and scented all its savour:
When lo! as in the month the blackthorn blows,
Lambs 'gan to bleat, and merle and lark to quaver.
Flower of my life! inestimably dear,
Now that its calendar wanes sere and sober,
To me your freshness, turning back the year,
Makes that seem April others call October.
With me 'tis Autumn, and with you 'tis Spring,
But Love hath brought these seasons sweet together.
Within your leafy life I sit and sing,
And you with me share wealth of harvest weather.
Thus all things we exchange, and nothing lose:
Take you life's wisdom, lend to me life's sweetness.
Your vernal voice shall wed my mellow muse,
And song give youth, and youth give song, completeness.
poem by Alfred Austin
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If Not For June
If not for June,
My memories of Winter in December...
With a wish to witness,
The freshness of Spring March would bring...
Would not still remain so vivid.
As if only yesterday visited.
If not for June.
If not for June,
My eyesight would not be teased...
By the freedom felt in Summer,
With hopes that linger of those things I could do,
Under clear skies showing bright Sun.
And seeing the fun shared by nearly everyone,
If not for June.
And if not for June I would not be able to reminisce,
From so many experiences I could pick.
June seems to be the month I can do this.
With a thankfulness I am still in the midst,
Of a year that appears to have just begun.
With so much left to offer before it is done.
And for me this happens only when June comes.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Love's Autumn
YES, love, the Spring shall come again,
But not as once it came:
Once more in meadow and in lane
The daffodils shall flame,
The cowslips blow, but all in vain;
Alike, yet not the same.
The roses that we pluck’d of old
Were dew’d with heart’s delight;
Our gladness steep’d the primrose-gold
In half its lovely light:
The hopes are long since dead and cold
That flush’d the wind-flowers’ white.
Oh, who shall give us back our Spring?
What spell can fill the air
With all the birds of painted wing
That sang for us whilere?
What charm reclothe with blossoming
Our lives, grown blank and bare?
What sun can draw the ruddy bloom
Back to hope’s faded rose?
What stir of summer re-illume
Our hearts’ wreck’d garden-close?
What flowers can fill the empty room
Where now the nightshade grows?
’T is but the Autumn’s chilly sun
That mocks the glow of May;
’T is but the pallid bindweeds run
Across our garden way,
Pale orchids, scentless every one,
Ghosts of the summer day.
Yet, if it must be so, ’t is well:
What part have we in June?
Our hearts have all forgot the spell
That held the summer noon;
We echo back the cuckoo’s knell,
And not the linnet’s tune.
What shall we do with roses now,
Whose cheeks no more are red?
What violets should deck our brow,
Whose hopes long since are fled?
Recalling many a wasted vow
And many a faith struck dead.
Bring heath and pimpernel and rue,
The Autumn’s sober flowers:
At least their scent will not renew
The thought of happy hours,
Nor drag sad memory back unto
That lost sweet time of ours.
Faith is no sun of summertide,
Only the pale, calm light
That, when the Autumn clouds divide,
Hangs in the watchet height,—
A lamp, wherewith we may abide
The coming of the night.
And yet, beneath its languid ray,
The moorlands bare and dry
Bethink them of the summer day
And flower, far and nigh,
With fragile memories of the May,
Blue as the August sky.
These are our flowers: they have no scent
To mock our waste desire,
No hint of bygone ravishment
To stir the faded fire:
The very soul of sad content
Dwells in each azure spire.
I have no violets: you laid
Your blight upon them all:
It was your hand, alas! that made
My roses fade and fall,
Your breath my lilies that forbade
To come at Summer’s call.
Yet take these scentless flowers and pale,
The last of all my year:
Be tender to them; they are frail:
But if thou hold them dear,
I ’ll not their brighter kin bewail,
That now lie cold and sere.
poem by John Howard Payne
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A Spring Poem From Bion
One asketh:
'Tell me, Myrson, tell me true:
What's the season pleaseth you?
Is it summer suits you best,
When from harvest toil we rest?
Is it autumn with its glory
Of all surfeited desires?
Is it winter, when with story
And with song we hug our fires?
Or is spring most fair to you-
Come, good Myrson, tell me true!'
Another answereth:
'What the gods in wisdom send
We should question not, my friend;
Yet, since you entreat of me,
I will answer reverently:
Me the summertime displeases,
For its sun is scorching hot;
Autumn brings such dire diseases
That perforce I like it not;
As for biting winter, oh!
How I hate its ice and snow!
'But, thrice welcome, kindly spring,
With the myriad gifts you bring!
Not too hot nor yet too cold,
Graciously your charms unfold-
Oh, your days are like the dreaming
Of those nights which love beseems,
And your nights have all the seeming
Of those days of golden dreams!
Heaven smiles down on earth, and then
Earth smiles up to heaven again!'
poem by Eugene Field
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Forever Autumn
The summer sun is fading
As the year grows old
And darker days are drawing near.
The winter winds will be much colder
Now you're not here.
I watch the birds fly south across the autumn sky
And one by one they disappear.
I wish that I was flying with them
Now you're not here.
Like the sun through the trees you came to love me
Like a leaf on a breeze you blew away.
Through autumns golden gown we used to kick our way
You always loved this time of year.
Those fallen leaves lay undisturbed now
Cause you're not here.
Cause you're not here.
Cause you're not here.
Like the sun through the trees you came to love me.
Like a leaf on a breeze you blew away.
A gentle rain pours softly on my weary eyes.
As if to hide a lonely tear.
My life will be forever autumn
Cause you're not here.
Cause you're not here.
Cause you're not here.
song performed by by Moody Blues
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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