A Year's Windfalls

On the wind of JanuaryDown flits the snow,Travelling from the frozen NorthAs cold as it can blow.Poor robin redbreast,Look where he comes;Let him in to feel your fire,And toss him of your crumbs.

On the wind in FebruarySnowflakes float still,Half inclined to turn to rain,Nipping, dripping, chill.Then the thaws swell the streams,And swollen rivers swell the sea:--If the winter ever endsHow pleasant it will be!

In the wind of windy MarchThe catkins drop down,Curly, caterpillar-like,Curious green and brown.With concourse of nest-building birdsAnd leaf-buds by the way,We begin to think of flowersAnd life and nuts some day.

With the gusts of AprilRich fruit-tree blossoms fall,On the hedged-in orchard-green,From the southern wall.Apple-trees and pear-treesShed petals white or pink,Plum-trees and peach-trees;While sharp showers sink and sink.

Little brings the May breezeBeside pure scent of flowers,While all things wax and nothing wanesIn lengthening daylight hours.Across the hyacinth bedsThe wind lags warm and sweet,Across the hawthorn tops,Across the blades of wheat.

In the wind of sunny JuneThrives the red rose crop,Every day fresh blossoms blowWhile the first leaves drop;White rose and yellow roseAnd moss-rose choice to find,And the cottage cabbage-roseNot one whit behind.

On the blast of scorched JulyDrives the pelting hail,From thunderous lightning-clouds, that blotBlue heaven grown lurid-pale.Weedy waves are tossed ashore,Sea-things strange to sightGasp upon the barren shoreAnd fade away in light.

In the parching August windCorn-fields bow the head,Sheltered in round valley depths,On low hills outspread.Early leaves drop loitering downWeightless on the breeze,First fruits of the year's decayFrom the withering trees.

In brisk wind of SeptemberThe heavy-headed fruitsShake upon their bending boughsAnd drop from the shoots;Some glow golden in the sun,Some show green and streaked,Some set forth a purple bloom,Some blush rosy-cheeked.

In strong blast of OctoberAt the equinox,Stirred up in his hollow bedBroad ocean rocks;Plunge the ships on his bosom,Leaps and plunges the foam,--It's oh! for mothers' sons at sea,That they were safe at home.

In slack wind of NovemberThe fog forms and shifts;All the world comes out againWhen the fog lifts.Loosened from their sapless twigsLeaves drop with every gust;Drifting, rustling, out of sightIn the damp or dust.

Last of all, December,The year's sands nearly run,Speeds on the shortest day,Curtails the sun;With its bleak raw windLays the last leaves low,Brings back the nightly frosts,Brings back the snow.