Spring is the birth day of the infant year,
The resurrection morn of buried leaves;
Summer, the laughing maid of liveliest cheer,—
That feasts the young year on her yellow sheaves.
Autumn, full age and riches are thy care,
Thou miser of the year made fat with grain;
Winter is death, his hand shall never spare,
And snow-wreaths shroud the coffined year again.
