Poems (Edwards)/The Voice of the Seasons
THE VOICE OF THE SEASONS.
"I come, I come," said the bright young Spring; And her step was free and light,As she flung o'er the earth a garland, wreathed With flowers, all red and white;She threw a mantle of living green, O'er mountain, hill, and dale:She waked the birds, and their anthems sweet Made vocal the winding vale;She decked the hills and valleys wide, And gardens with flowerets sweet,And they sparkled out like precious gems,— All glittering at our feet;She clothed the world in rich array;— But I heard a sad sweet tone,"I am passing away;" I looked, and lo! The lovely Spring was gone.
"I come, I come," cried the Summer-time, "Make room, make room for me;"And the green wheat doffed his verdant robe, And waved like a golden sea;"I come to ripen the harvest fields, And work while yet 'tis day,But my task is done, my time is brief, And I must soon away;"I saw the Summer enthroned on the storm, The tempest I trembling heard,And the winds swept by on their rushing wings, Fulfilling their Maker's word;But the storm was hushed, and the tempest died Away in a muffled moan;"I am passing away," I looked again, And the Summer-time was gone.
"I come, I come," said the Autumn chill, "Make room, make room for me,I blast each flower in garden and bower, And wither the grass on the lea: I come with seared and falling leaves, With a sad and mournful breath,Repeating, as slowly I pass along, Prepare, prepare for death;"And Autumn stood with his pensive look, Casting the dead leaves down,And uttered his warning voice to all, In a sad and solemn sound;He breathed on the mountains and valleys deep The breath of a swift decay,And leaves, and flowers, and warbling birds,— All fled, like a dream, away.
Stern Winter then trod the frozen hills, And his step was proud and high,And the tall trees bowed with trembling awe As he passed in fury by;I heard a sound like a funeral knell Fall sadly on my ear,I turned to look, and lo! I stood On the grave of the buried year; We are passing away with the seasons too, We bloom and die like them—We all do fade, as a leaf that fades, And falls from its parent stem;We are passing away like the changing year, To slumber 'neath death's cold wave;Our march is onward, and onward still, To the dark and dreamless grave.