The Seasons

The year hath first his jocund spring, Wherein the leaves, to birds' sweet carolling, Dance with the wind; then sees the summer's day Perfect the embryon blossom of each spray; Next cometh autumn, when the thresh'd sheaf Loseth his grain, and every tree his leaf; Lastly, cold winter's rage, with many a storm, Threats the proud pines which Ida's top adorn, And makes the sap leave succourless the shoot, Shrinking to comfort his decaying root. From Britannia's Pastorals.