Thank God who seasons thus the year, And sometimes kindly slants his rays, For in his winter he's most near, And plainest seen upon the shortest days. Who gently tempers now his heats, And then his harsher cold, lest we Should surfeit on the Summer's sweets, Or pine upon the Winter's crudity. Grown tired of this rank summer's wealth, Its raw and superficial show, I fain would hie away by stealth Where no roads meet, but still 't doth trivial grow. Methinks by dalliance it hath caught The shallow habits of the town, Itself infected most, which ought With sterner face upon our tameness frown. A sober mind will walk alone Apart from nature if need be, And only its own seasons own, For nature having its humanity. Sometimes a late Autumnal thought Has crossed my mind in green July, And to its early freshness brought Late ripened fruits and an autumnal sky. A dry but golden thought which gleamed Across the greenness of my mind, And prematurely wise it seemed, Too ripe 'mid summer's youthful bowers to find. So have I seen one yellow leaf Amid the glossy leaves of June, Which pensive hung, though not with grief, Like some fair flower, it had changed so soon. I scent my med'cine from afar, Where the rude simpler of the year, October leads the rustling war, And strews his honors on the summer's bier. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ANOTHER DARK LADY by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON THE CHAM TOWERS AT DA NANG by KAREN SWENSON SONNET by GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS THE BARREL-ORGAN by ALFRED NOYES ODES I, 38. AD MINISTRAM by QUINTUS HORATIUS FLACCUS THE MYSTIC TRUMPETER by WALT WHITMAN ON AN INTAGLIO HEAD OF MINERVA (2) by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH LINES TO BE SPOKEN BY THOMAS DENMAN.....WHEN FOUR YEARS OLD by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE: 11 by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING |