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When soothed a while by milder airs,Thee Winter in the garland wearsThat thinly shades his few grey hairs;Spring cannot shun thee;Whole summer fields are thine by right;And Autumn, melancholy Wight!Doth in thy crimson head delightWhen rains are on thee.
In shoals and bands, a morrice train,Thou greet'st the Traveller in the lane;If welcome once thou count'st it gain;Thou art not daunted,Nor car'st if thou be set at naught;And oft alone in nooks remoteWe meet thee, like a pleasant thought,When such are wanted.
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