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George B. Logan, Jr. [1892-
A WOOD SONG
Now one and all, you Roses, Wake up, you lie too long!
This very morning closes The Nightingale his song;
Each from its olive chamber His babies every one This very morning clamber Into the s.h.i.+ning sun.
You Slug-a-beds and Simples, Why will you so delay!
Dears, doff your olive wimples, And listen while you may.
Ralph Hodgson [1871-
THE CHANGING YEAR
A SONG FOR THE SEASONS
When the merry lark doth gild With his song the summer hours, And their nests the swallows build In the roofs and tops of towers, And the golden broom-flower burns All about the waste, And the maiden May returns With a pretty haste,-- Then, how merry are the times!
The Spring times! the Summer times!
Now, from off the ashy stone The chilly midnight cricket crieth, And all merry birds are flown, And our dream of pleasure dieth; Now the once blue, laughing sky Saddens into gray, And the frozen rivers sigh, Pining all away!
Now, how solemn are the times!
The Winter times! the Night times!
Yet, be merry; all around Is through one vast change revolving; Even Night, who lately frowned, Is in paler dawn dissolving; Earth will burst her fetters strange, And in Spring grow free; All things in the world will change, Save--my love for thee!
Sing then, hopeful are all times!
Winter, Spring, Summer times!
Bryan Waller Procter [1787-1874]
A SONG OF THE SEASONS
Sing a song of Spring-time, The world is going round, Blown by the south wind: Listen to its sound.
"Gurgle" goes the mill-wheel, "Cluck" clucks the hen; And it's O for a pretty girl To kiss in the glen.
Sing a song of Summer, The world is nearly still, The mill-pond has gone to sleep, And so has the mill.
Shall we go a-sailing, Or shall we take a ride, Or dream the afternoon away Here, side by side?
Sing a song of Autumn, The world is going back; They glean in the corn-field, And stamp on the stack.
Our boy, Charlie, Tall, strong, and light: He shoots all the day And dances all the night.
Sing a song of Winter, The world stops dead; Under snowy coverlid Flowers lie abed.
There's hunting for the young ones And wine for the old, And a s.e.xton in the churchyard Digging in the cold.
Cosmo Monkhouse [1840-1901]
TURN O' THE YEAR
This is the time when bit by bit The days begin to lengthen sweet And every minute gained is joy-- And love stirs in the heart of a boy.
This is the time the sun, of late Content to lie abed till eight, Lifts up betimes his sleepy head-- And love stirs in the heart of a maid.
This is the time we dock the night Of a whole hour of candlelight; When song of linnet and thrush is heard-- And love stirs in the heart of a bird.
This is the time when sword-blades green, With gold and purple damascene, Pierce the brown crocus-bed a-row-- And love stirs in a heart I know.
Katherine Tynan Hinkson [1861-1931]
THE WAKING YEAR
A lady red upon the hill Her annual secret keeps; A lady white within the field In placid lily sleeps!
The tidy breezes with their brooms Sweep vale, and hill, and tree!
Prithee, my pretty housewives!
Who may expected be?
The neighbors do not yet suspect!
The woods exchange a smile,-- Orchard, and b.u.t.tercup, and bird, In such a little while!
