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Posts Tagged ‘summer’

If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song,
May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear,
Like thy own solemn springs,
Thy springs, and dying gales,

O nymph reserv’d, while now the bright-hair’d sun
Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,
With brede ethereal wove,
O’er hang his wavy bed:

Now air is hush’d, save where the weak-ey’d bat,
With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing,
Or where the beetle winds
His small but sullen horn,

As oft he rises ‘midst the twilight path,
Against the Pilgrim borne in heedless hum:
Now teach me, maid compos’d,
To breathe some soften’d strain,

Whose numbers, stealing thro’ my darkning vale
May not unseemly with its stillness suit,
As, musing slow, I hail
Thy genial lov’d return!

For when thy folding-star arising shews
His play circlet, at his warning lamp
The fragrant Hours, and elves
Who slept in flowers the day,

And many a nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge,
And sheds the fresh’ning dew, and lovelier still,
The pensive Pleasures sweet
Prepare thy shadowy car.

Then lead, calm vot’ress, where some sheety lake
Cheers the lone heath, or some time-hallow’d pile,
Or upland fallows grey
Reflect its last cool gleam.

But when chill blust’ring winds, or driving rain,
Forbid my willing feet, be mine the hut
That from the mountain’s side,
Views wilds, and swelling floods,

And hamlets brown, and dim-discover’d spires,
And hears their simple bell, and marks o’er all
Thy dewy fingers draw
The gradual dusky veil.

While Spring shall pour his show’rs, as oft he wont,
And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve!
While Summer loves to sport,
Beneath thy ling’ring light;

While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves,
Or Winter yelling thro’ the troublous air,
Affrights thy shrinking train,
And rudely rends thy robes;

So long, sure-found beneath the sylvan shed,
Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, rose-lip’d Health
Thy gentlest influence own,
And hymn thy fav’rite name!

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Spring is a skipping pretty girl
With flowers in her hair,
Remaking all the meadows’ moods;
By May, she’s twice as fair. 

Close on her heels, kin – Summer – comes,
A lad who likes to race.
He’s bursting with great energy,
And fierce and flushed his face. 

Fall is a lady, elegant –
Dressed in her finery.
She is a bit aloof: just take
Or leave her to her spree. 

But Winter is a grumpy man;
And old and gruff he seems.
Both biting bitterness and gloom
Can be his aged extremes.
 

As each one comes, treat each one well
And pay their tip or fee.
Not only will you live in them,
But each one could you be.

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2015.

 

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May 2015 In Texas

At my house,
Rain – thirteen inches.
A May-zing!

Nearby lake
Was at 3 percent,
Now 50.

Much flooding.
Disaster for some.
Flood of tears.

Not merry
For them, but bury
Month of May.

May showers
Followed by summer
Texas heat.

In Texas,
We were dry; now wet,
Drying out.

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a link to some information about the rain in Texas: http://www.wfaa.com/story/weather/2015/06/02/record-may-rainfall-what-you-need-to-know/28290569/

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2015.

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English: Four seasons collage from four Wikime...

(photo credits: Spring – BenHur, Summer – Nova, Autumn – Jongleur100 and Winter – SpaceJ via Wikipedia)

          The Human Seasons

Four Seasons fill the measure of the year;
There are four seasons in the mind of man:
He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear
Takes in all beauty with an easy span:

He has his Summer, when luxuriously
Spring’s honey’d cud of youthful thought he loves
To ruminate, and by such dreaming high
Is nearest unto heaven: quiet coves

His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings
He furleth close: contented so to look
On mists in idleness – to let fair things
Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook.

He has his Winter too of pale misfeature,
Or else he would forego his mortal nature.

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The clouds are scarce across the sky.
The blue is light, sun-washed, and dry,
Bleached like the faded jeans of youth,
And wrung and robbed of all its truth,
But seasons change.

The grass is green, but not the green
Of spring, or life, or fresh, or clean.
Tis green of age like wrinkled skin,
When August earth has hair that’s thin.
But seasons change.

The birds of beauty hide in heat,
But ones that circle aren’t discreet,
In search of death upon the land
Where hot air shimmers on the sand;
But seasons change.

Tomorrow is like yesterday,
As indistinct as bales of hay
That dot the drying, dying fields,
When stacking days have fewer yields.
But seasons change.

We wish for rain to make us well;
But though it’s hot, it is not Hell.
And that’s the thought that keeps us sane,
That soon or late, these days will wane.
Here, seasons change.

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2011.

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