The Seasons Summer’s the heart of the river, Where the light struck up the glen, Softly the shadows quiver— Out of the fulness then.

Ivies curling, leaves unfurling, Drifting where breezes linger, Filling the air with music That is borne on a tender finger.

Winter is lash’d with snow, Cold against the darkness stay, But the warmth from within still glows, When the sun can chase it away.

Autumn speaks with fiery breath, With glimmering colors bright, And the fading summer’s death Closes fast the golden light.

Thus does life draw to meet us, Round in the circling gloom, For beauty replete would greet us, As seasons weave one bloom.

• Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr