The Seasons

By Anne Wales Abbot

Annotations by Abby Army/JB

                       First Child.
I love the Spring, when first the leaves and flowers
       Peep from the ground,
And the rain falls with its refreshing showers
       And rushing sound.
Ah, then how gayly, gladly pass the hours
       That Spring has crowned!

I love the first soft airs that, gently blowing,
       Break Nature’s sleep;
And the free streamlet from the hillside flowing, 
       So full and deep;
And velvet carpet of the green grass, growing
       On plain and steep.

                       Second Child.
Give me glad Summer, for the Spring is chilling
       With its fresh gales;
But the warm breath of Summer, ever filling
       With joy the dales,
Comes, and to my heart, attuned and willing,
       Tells its sweet tales.

Yes! give me Summer; for the earth is ringing
       With glad delight;
And lovely flowers in every field are springing,
       Than Spring’s more bright;
And the sweet warblers of the grove are singing
       From morn till night.

                       Third Child.
The Autumn, with its wealth of fruits abounding,
       I love the best:
The harvest-home is merrily resounding;
       And gay the jest
Of the good farmers, when, the board surrounding
       They take their rest.

Then wears the sky a deeper tinge, and brighter
       The sunset’s hues,
And the full moon makes night than day seem lighter, 
       And gleam the dews,
Till the white frost locks all in keeping tighter,— 
       His reign renews.

                       Fourth Child.
Mine be the Winter, with its dazzling glory
       Of drifted snow;
And the old trees, that bow their heads so hoary
       To winds that blow:
Then, then I hear the ghost or wizard story
       By firelight glow.

The pure, clear air, that whistles through the valley, 
       To me is dear: 
I let its breezes with my garments dally,
       Nor danger fear,
When forth into the storm I boldly sally
       With hearty cheer.

                       Mother.
All have their joys,—the Spring, that brings the roses
       Among its train;
The Summer fair, that thousand sweets discloses 
       On hill and plain;
Then the ripe Autumn, with its well-filled closes
       Waving with grain.

Last, Winter comes, and, round the fireside bending, 
       We feel no cold. 
Then from our full hearts let us ever, sending
       Forth praise untold,
Thank the grad God, and pray that we, ascending,
       May reach his fold.

Abbot, anne wales. “The Seasons.” The Child’s Friend and Family Magazine 26 (January 1856): 276-78.