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Alfred Austin - The Spring—Time,
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The Spring—time, O the Spring—time!
 Who does not know it well?
 When the little birds begin to build,
 And the buds begin to swell.
 When the sun with the clouds plays hide—and—seek,
 And the lambs are bucking and bleating,
 And the colour mounts to the maiden`s cheek,
 And the cuckoo scatters greeting;
 In the Spring—time, joyous Spring—time!

 The Summer, O the Summer!
 Who does not know it well?
 When the ringdoves coo the long day through,
 And the bee refills his cell.
 When the swish of the mower is heard at morn,
 And we all in the woods go roaming,
 And waiting is over, and love is born,
 And shy lips meet in the gloaming;
 In the Summer, ripening Summer!

 The Autumn, O the Autumn!
 Who does not know it well?
 When the leaf turns brown, and the mast drops down,
 And the chestnut splits its shell.
 When we muse o`er the days that have gone before,
 And the days that will follow after,
 When the grain lies deep on the winnowing—floor,
 And the plump gourd hangs from the rafter;
 In the Autumn, thoughtful Autumn!

 The Winter, O the Winter!
 Who does not know it well?
 When, day after day, the fields stretch gray,
 And the peewit wails on the fell.
 When we close up the crannies and shut out the cold,
 And the wind sounds hoarse and hollow,
 And our dead loves sleep in the churchyard mould,
 And we feel that we soon shall follow;
 In the Winter, mournful Winter!
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