The Seasons
By C. D. Barrett
Spring
I arose one morn, and from my door
Saw the world all dressed in green;
And I knew in her robe of emerald hue
Small amethysts could be seen.
‘Twas like a dream of my childhood hours,
This happy growing-time,
That spoke the poetry of youth,
When life itself was rhyme.
Summer
I arose one morn, and beheld the hills
All clad in gorgeous robes
Of scarlet and saffron, of purple and gold,
And jewels of circles and globes.
‘Twas like a dream of more joyful days,
When life seemed a vision rare,
And I thought no earthly blessedness
Could with my own compare.
Autumn
I arose one morn, and lo! the hills
Again had changed attire;
The mantle, brown, bore scarlet gems
In lustre most entire.
A vision ’twas of labor done,
Of tasks now at an end;
Ambitions, hopes, now realized,
Their joys or sorrows send.
Winter
I arose one morn, from my window looked,
And the world was white and still.
No lay of plumed songsters heard,
Of robin or whippoorwill;
But, oh! it was like a dream of peace,
This winding-sheet of white –
The still world told of a sweet repose,
The end of a stormy night.
God help us in our struggle here,
Give us to see the reasons
For all our cares; and wisdom grant
To gladly take life’s seasons.