The Seasons

When the hollow hills are lit, And the violets begin to bloom, The daffodils shall the sun admit, And the morning shall call me to my doom.

The bees shall hum in the morning dew, And the larks shall prize the sun; I will unfold like the fold of the azure blue, Until my springtime is done.

But when the autumn’s leaves turn grey, When the winds have their softest breath, With shadows that dance in the lengthening day, I drift to the edge of death.

And yet this season, its dance of Snow, Normally wraps itself in glee, For nature’s beauty calls it to flow, In every turn, it mocks me free!

• Thomas Hardy