O SEASON supposed of all free flowers, Made lovely by light of the sun, Of garden, of field, and of tree-flowers, Thy singers are surely in fun! Or what is it wholly unsettles Thy sequence of shower and shine, And maketh thy pushings and petals To shrivel and pine? Why is it that o'er the wild waters That beastly North-Easter still blows, Dust-dimming the eyes of our daughters, Blue-nipping each nice little nose? Why is it these sea-skirted islands Are plagued with perpetual chills, Driving men to Italian or Nile-lands From Albion's ills? Happy he, O Springtide, who hath found thee, All sunlit, in luckier lands, With thy garment of greenery round thee, And belted with blossomy bands. From us by the blast thou art drifted, All brag of thy beauties is bosh; When the songs of thy singers are sifted, They simply won't wash. What lunatic lune, what vain vision, Thy laureate, Springtide, may move To sing thee, -- oh, bitter derision! A season of laughter and love? You make a man mad beyond measure, O Spring, and thy lauders like thee: Thy flowers, thy pastimes and pleasures, Are fiddlededee! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: SARAH BROWN by EDGAR LEE MASTERS THE FIDDLING WOOD by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET HOPE (1) by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON TO-MORROW TO FRESH WOODS AND PASTURES NEW' by AMY LOWELL AND SO, I THINK DIOGENES by AMY LOWELL DOMEDAY BOOK: JOHN CAMPBELL AND CARL EATON by EDGAR LEE MASTERS SONNET; OXFORD, 1916 by GEORGE SANTAYANA |