The Year

Spring.

MAY EVENING.

Silence and peace. The warm, love-bringing Night From the pure zenith soft and slow descending Lulls the sweet air to rest, with the day’s ending, Save where the dark bat wheels his fickle flight. Deep glows the rosy-golden West, still bright, Beyond the plumy toss of elms down-bending, Whilst on the close-cut lawns, blurring and bending, Tall chapel-windows cast their ruddy light.

Now the clear blue of the mid dome of heaven Darkens, immeasurably deep and still. That one full star which ushers in the even Burns in rapt glory o’er the steadfast spire; And the Night-angel strews at his sweet will The silvern star-dust of the heavenly choir.

Summer.

AUGUST RAIN.

Dead is the day, and through the list’ning leaves The wind-dirge sighs. Sad at my dim-lit pane I darkling sit to hear the pattering rain And pebbly drip that plashes from the eaves. Far in the misty fields loll sodden sheaves, Whilst every wheel-mark in the rutty lane Leads down its trickling rivulet to drain Marsh-meadows where the knotted willow grieves.

Gray afternoon to dusk hath given place, And dusk to silent darkness falls again. Listless, to see the sad earth veil her face, I watch the miry fields, the swollen rills, And, farther, through my glimmering windowpane, The rain-swept valley and the fading hills...

Autumn

NOVEMBER IN CAMBRIDGE.

Even in her mourning is the College fair, With burial robes of scarlet leaves and gold That flicker down in misty morning cold Or fall reluctant through gray evening air. The Gothic elms rise desolately bare; A clinging flame the twisted ivy crawls Its blood-red course athwart the time-worn walls And spreads its crimson arras everywhere.

High noon brings some wan ghost of summer, still; Fresh stand the rose-trees yet, the lawns show green With leaves inlaid, and still the pigeons fly Round sun-warm gables where they court and preen; But evenfall comes shuddering down, a-chill, And bare black branches fret the leaden sky.

Winter.

HAMPTON HOLIDAYS.

Last comes December with his ruffian wind Whirled from the maelstrom of the polar sea To sweep our mighty hill in mockery Of such enshrouding snows as would be kind And wrap their frozen mother. Stiffly lined Through thin and crackling ice the leaves lie stark As hoar Caina’s ice-locked souls, and dark In the dark air the branches toss and grind.

Then dawns another day when winds are still; From our frost-flashing village on the hill We greet the laggard sun, and far below All down the valley see the silver spread, Save where the dim fir-forest’s pungent bed Lies thatched by tufted pine-plumes bright with snow.