What'S In A Name?

Why has Spring one syllable less Than any its fellow season? There may be some other reason, And I'm merely making a guess; But surely it hoards such wealth Of happiness, hope and health, Sunshine and musical sound, It may spare a foot from its name Yet all the same Superabound.

Soft-named Summer, Most welcome comer, Brings almost everything Over which we dream or sing Or sigh; But then Summer wends its way, To-morrow,--to-day,-- Good-bye!

Autumn,--the slow name lingers, While we likewise flag; It silences many singers; Its slow days drag, Yet hasten at speed To leave us in chilly need For Winter to strip indeed.

In all-lack Winter, Dull of sense and of sound, We huddle and shiver Beside our splinter Of crackling pine, Snow in sky and snow on ground. Winter and cold Can't last for ever! To-day, to-morrow, the sun will shine; When we are old, But some still are young, Singing the song Which others have sung, Ringing the bells Which others have rung,-- Even so! We ourselves, who else? We ourselves long Long ago.

MARIANA.

Not for me marring or making, Not for me giving or taking; I love my Love and he loves not me, I love my Love and my heart is breaking.

Sweet is Spring in its lovely showing, Sweet the violet veiled in blowing, Sweet it is to love and be loved; Ah, sweet knowledge beyond my knowing!

Who sighs for love sighs but for pleasure, Who wastes for love hoards up a treasure; Sweet to be loved and take no count, Sweet it is to love without measure.

Sweet my Love whom I loved to try for, Sweet my Love whom I love and sigh for, Will you once love me and sigh for me, You my Love whom I love and die for?

MEMENTO MORI.

Poor the pleasure Doled out by measure, Sweet though it be, while brief As falling of the leaf; Poor is pleasure By weight and measure.

Sweet the sorrow Which ends to-morrow; Sharp though it be and sore, It ends for evermore: Zest of sorrow, What ends to-morrow.