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Algernon Charles Swinburne - Four Songs Of Four Seasons
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I.  WINTER IN NORTHUMBERLAND
      OUTSIDE the garden
      The wet skies harden;
      The gates are barred on
            The summer side:
      "Shut out the flower-time,
      Sunbeam and shower-time;
      Make way for our time,"
            Wild winds have cried.
      Green once and cheery,
      The woods, worn weary,
      Sigh as the dreary
            Weak sun goes home:
      A great wind grapples
      The wave, and dapples
The dead green floor of the sea with foam.

      Through fell and moorland,
      And salt-sea foreland,
      Our noisy norland
            Resounds and rings;
      Waste waves thereunder
      Are blown in sunder,
      And winds make thunder
            With cloudwide wings;
      Sea-drift makes dimmer
      The beacon`s glimmer;
      Nor sail nor swimmer
            Can try the tides;
      And snowdrifts thicken
      Where, when leaves quicken,
Under the heather the sundew hides.

      Green land and red land,
      Moorside and headland,
      Are white as dead land,
            Are all as one;
      Nor honied heather,
      Nor bells to gather,
      Fair with fair weather
            And faithful sun:
      Fierce frost has eaten
      All flowers that sweeten
      The fells rain-beaten;
            And winds their foes
      Have made the snow`s bed
      Down in the rose-bed;
Deep in the snow`s bed bury the rose.

      Bury her deeper
      Than any sleeper;
      Sweet dreams will keep her
            All day, all night;
      Though sleep benumb her
      And time o`ercome her,
      She dreams of summer,
            And takes delight,
      Dreaming and sleeping
      In love`s good keeping,
      While rain is weeping
            And no leaves cling;
      Winds will come bringing her
      Comfort, and singing her
Stories and songs and good news of the spring.

      Draw the white curtain
      Close, and be certain
      She takes no hurt in
            Her soft low bed;
      She feels no colder,
      And grows not older,
      Though snows enfold her
            From foot to head;
      She turns not chilly
      Like weed and lily
      In marsh or hilly
            High watershed,
      Or green soft island
      In lakes of highland;
She sleeps awhile, and she is not dead.

      For all the hours,
      Come sun, come showers,
      Are friends of flowers,
            And fairies all;
      When frost entrapped her,
      They came and lapped her
      In leaves, and wrapped her
            With shroud and pall;
      In red leaves wound her,
      With dead leaves bound her
      Dead brows, and round her
            A death-knell rang;
      Rang the death-bell for her,
      Sang, "is it well for her,
Well, is it well with you, rose?" they sang.

      O what and where is
      The rose now, fairies,
      So shrill the air is,
            So wild the sky?
      Poor last of roses,
      Her worst of woes is
      The noise she knows is
            The winter`s cry;
      His hunting hollo
      Has scared the swallow;
      Fain would she follow
            And fain would fly:
      But wind unsettles
      Her poor last petals;
Had she but wings, and she would not die.

      Come, as you love her,
      Come close and cover
      Her white face over,
            And forth again
      Ere sunset glances
      On foam that dances,
      Through lowering lances
            Of bright white rain;
      And make your playtime
      Of winter`s daytime,
      As if the Maytime
            Were here to sing;
      As if the snowballs
      Were soft like blowballs,
Blown in a mist from the stalk in the spring.

      Each reed that grows in
      Our stream is frozen,
      The fields it flows in
            Are hard and black;
      The water-fairy
      Waits wise and wary
      Till time shall vary
            And thaws come back.
      "O sister, water,"
      The wind besought her,
      "O twin-born daughter
            Of spring with me,
      Stay with me, play with me,
      Take the warm way with me,
Straight for the summer and oversea."

      But winds will vary,
      And wise and wary
      The patient fairy
            Of water waits;
      All shrunk and wizen,
      In iron prison,
      Till spring re-risen
            Unbar the gates;
      Till, as with clamor
      Of axe and hammer,
      Chained streams that stammer
            And struggle in straits
      Burst bonds that shiver,
      And thaws deliver
The roaring river in stormy spates.

      In fierce March weather
      White waves break tether,
      And whirled together
            At either hand,
      Like weeds uplifted,
      The tree-trunks rifted
      In spars are drifted,
            Like foam or sand,
      Past swamp and sallow
      And reed-beds callow,
      Through pool and shallow,
      To wind and lee,
      Till, no more tongue-tied,
      Full flood and young tide
Roar down the rapids and storm the sea.

      As men`s cheeks faded
      On shores invaded,
      When shorewards waded
            The lords of fight;
      When churl and craven
      Saw hard on haven
      The wide-winged raven
            At mainmast height;
      When monks affrighted
      To windward sighted
      The birds full-flighted
            Of swift sea-kings;
      So earth turns paler
      When Storm the sailor
Steers in with a roar in the race of his wings.

      O strong sea-sailor,
      Whose cheek turns paler
      For wind or hail or
            For fear of thee?
      O far sea-farer,
      O thunder-bearer,
      Thy songs are rarer
            Than soft songs be.
      O fleet-foot stranger,
      O north-sea ranger
      Through days of danger
            And ways of fear,
      Blow thy horn here for us,
      Blow the sky clear for us,
Send us the song of the sea to hear.

      Roll the strong stream of it
      Up, till the scream of it
      Wake from a dream of it
            Children that sleep,
      Seamen that fare for them
      Forth, with a prayer for them:
      Shall not God care for them
            Angels not keep?
      Spare not the surges
      Thy stormy scourges;
      Spare us the dirges
            Of wives that weep.
      Turn back the waves for us:
      Dig no fresh graves for us,
Wind, in the manifold gulfs of the deep.

      O stout north-easter,
      Sea-king, land-waster,
      For all thine haste, or
            Thy stormy skill,
      Yet hadst thou never,
      For all endeavour,
      Strength to dissever
            Or strength to spill,
      Save of his giving
      Who gave our living,
      Whose hands are weaving
            What ours fulfil;
      Whose feet tread under
      The storms and thunder;
Who made our wonder to work his will.

      His years and hours,
      His world`s blind powers,
      His stars and flowers,
            His nights and days,
      Sea-tide and river,
      And waves that shiver,
      Praise God, the giver
            Of tongues to praise.
      Winds in their blowing,
      And fruits in growing;
      Time in its going,
            While time shall be;
      In death and living,
      With one thanksgiving,
Praise him whose hand is the strength of the sea.

II.  SPRING IN TUSCANY
ROSE-RED lilies that bloom on the banner;
      Rose-cheeked gardens that revel in spring;
            Rose-mouthed acacias that laugh as they climb,
Like plumes for a queen`s hand fashioned to fan her
      With wind more soft than a wild dove`s wing,
            What do they sing in the spring of their time

If this be the rose that the world hears singing,
      Soft in the soft night, loud in the day,
            Songs for the fireflies to dance as they hear;
If that be the song of the nightingale, springing
      Forth in the form of a rose in May,
            What do they say of the way of the year?

What of the way of the world gone Maying,
      What of the work of the buds in the bowers,
            What of the will of the wind on the wall,
Fluttering the wall-flowers, sighing and playing,
      Shrinking again as a bird that cowers,
            Thinking of hours when the flowers have to fall?

Out of the throats of the loud birds showering,
      Out of the folds where the flag-lilies leap,
            Out of the mouths of the roses stirred,
Out of the herbs on the walls reflowering,
      Out of the heights where the sheer snows sleep,
            Out of the deep and the steep, one word.

One from the lips of the lily-flames leaping,
      The glad red lilies that burn in our sight,
            The great live lilies for standard and crown;
One from the steeps where the pines stand sleeping,
      One from the deep land, one from the height,
            One from the light and the might of the town.

The lowlands laugh with delight of the highlands,
      Whence May winds feed them with balm and breath
      From hills that beheld in the years behind
A shape as of one from the blest souls` islands,
      Made fair by a soul too fair for death,
            With eyes on the light that should smite them blind.

Vallombrosa remotely remembers,
      Perchance, what still to us seems so near
            That time not darkens it, change not mars,
The foot that she knew when her leaves were September`s,
      The face lift up to the star-blind seer,
            That saw from his prison arisen his stars.

And Pisa broods on her dead, not mourning,
      For love of her loveliness given them in fee;
            And Prato gleams with the glad monk`s gift
Whose hand was there as the hand of morning;
      And Siena, set in the sand`s red sea,
            Lifts loftier her head than the red sand`s drift.

And far to the fair south-westward lightens,
      Girdled and sandalled and plumed with flowers,
      At sunset over the love-lit lands,
The hill-side`s crown where the wild hill brightens,
      Saint Fina`s town of the Beautiful Towers,
            Hailing the sun with a hundred hands.

Land of us all that have loved thee dearliest,
      Mother of men that were lords of man,
            Whose name in the world`s heart work a spell
My last song`s light, and the star of mine earliest,
      As we turn from thee, sweet, who wast ours for a span,
            Fare well we may not who say farewell.

III.  SUMMER IN AUVERGNE
THE sundawn fills the land
Full as a feaster`s hand
Fills full with bloom of bland
            Bright wine his cup;
Flows full to flood that fills
From the arch of air it thrills
Those rust-red iron hills
            With morning up.

Dawn, as a panther springs,
With fierce and fire-fledged wings
Leaps on the land that rings
            From her bright feet
Through all its lava-black
Cones that cast answer back
And cliffs of footless track
            Where thunders meet.

The light speaks wide and loud
From deeps blown clean of cloud
As though day`s heart were proud
            And heaven`s were glad;
The towers brown-striped and grey
Take fire from heaven of day
As though the prayers they pray
      Their answers had.

Higher in these high first hours
Wax all the keen church towers,
And higher all hearts of ours
            Than the old hills` crown,
Higher than the pillared height
Of that strange cliff-side bright
With basalt towers whose might
            Strong time bows down.

And the old fierce ruin there
Of the old wild princes` lair
Whose blood in mine hath share
            Gapes gaunt and great
Toward heaven that long ago
Watched all the wan land`s woe
Whereon the wind would blow
            Of their bleak hate.

Dead are those deeds; but yet
Their memory seems to fret
Lands that might else forget
            That old world`s brand;
Dead all their sins and days;
Yet in this red clime`s rays
Some fiery memory stays
            That sears their land.

IV.  AUTUMN IN CORNWALL
THE year lies fallen and faded
On cliffs by clouds invaded,
With tongues of storms upbraided,
            With wrath of waves bedinned;
And inland, wild with warning,
As in deaf ears or scorning,
The clarion even and morning
            Rings of the south-west wind.

The wild bents wane and wither
In blasts whose breath bows hither
Their grey-grown heads and thither,
            Unblest of rain or sun;
The pale fierce heavens are crowded
With shapes like dreams beclouded,
As though the old year enshrouded
            Lay, long ere life were done.

Full-charged with oldworld wonders,
From dusk Tintagel thunders
A note that smites and sunders
            The hard frore fields of air;
A trumpet stormier-sounded
Than once from lists rebounded
When strong men sense-confounded
            Fell thick in tourney there.

From scarce a duskier dwelling
Such notes of wail rose welling
Through the outer darkness, telling
            In the awful singer`s ears
What souls the darkness covers,
What love-lost souls of lovers,
Whose cry still hangs and hovers
            In each man`s born that hears.

For there by Hector`s brother
And yet some thousand other
He that had grief to mother
            Passed pale from Dante`s sight;
With one fast linked as fearless,
Perchance, there only tearless;
Iseult and Tristram, peerless
            And perfect queen and knight.

A shrill-winged sound comes flying
North, as of wild souls crying
The cry of things undying,
            That know what life must be;
Or as the old year`s heart, stricken
Too sore for hope to quicken
By thoughts like thorns that thicken,
            Broke, breaking with the sea.
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