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When spring has burned
The ragged robe of winter, stitch by stitch,
And deftly turned
To moving melody the wayside ditch,
The pale-green pasture field behind the bar
Is goldened o’er with dandelion stars.
When summer keeps
Quick pace with sinewy white-shirted arms,
And daily steeps
In sunny splendour all her spreading farms,
The pasture field is flooded foamy whi
With daisy faces looking at the light.
When autumn lays
Her golden wealth upon the forest floor
And all the days
Look backward at the days that went before,
A pensive company, the asters, stand,
Their blue eyes brightening the pasture land.
When winter lifts
A sounding trumpet to his strenuous lips,
And shapes the drifts
To curves of transient loveliness, he slips
Upon the pasture’s ineffectual brow
A swan-soft vestment delicate as down.
— Ethelwyn Wetherald