18 Poems About The Seasons
Let these poems about the seasons remind you of the beauty that comes with each time of year. Whether it be spring, summer, fall, or winter each one has its own attractiveness.
With March comes in the pleasant spring,
When little birds begin to sing;
To build their nests, to hatch their brood.
With tender care provide them food.
And summer comes with verdant June;
The flowers then are in full bloom,
All nature smiles, the fields look gay;
The weather's fine to make the hay.
September comes; the golden corn
By many busy hands is shorn;
Autumn's ripe fruits, an ample store,
Are gathered in for rich and poor.
Winter's cold frost and northern blast —
This is the season that comes last
The snow has come, the sleigh-bells ring,
And merry boys rejoice and sing.
Poet: Mary C. Plummer
You promised you would come back again,
With your balmy air and beauty;
You promised to bring the dear little birds,
O, Spring, how well you attend your duty.
'Tis now I feel your near approach,
As I walk along life's pathway,
The chirping birds and fragrant flowers,
The swaying trees, and budding bowers.
The rippling brook and peeping grasses.
Romping boys, and laughing lasses,
Cupid, with her magic power.
Playing upon the hearts of men.
Sunbeams dancing in the places
Where the winter's frost has been;
Tells me, happy, joyous Springtime,
That you're gently coming in.
Too hot to crawl, too hot to creep,
Too hot to wake, too hot to sleep;
Too hot to stand, too hot to fall.
Too hot to laugh, too hot to bawl;
Too hot to ride, too hot to walk,
Too hot to whisper, or to talk;
Too hot to starve, too hot to eat,
My head's too hot— so lare my feet;
Too hot to kick about the heat,
Too hot for eggs, too hot for meat;
Too hot another line to sing —
Too blooming hot for anything!
Poet: Daniel C. Colesworthy
How cold it is, and dreary!
The snow is on the ground;
The chilly north wind bloweth
With melancholy sound.
The bright and dashing river,
The pleasant, leaping rill,
Are touched by Winter's finger,
And now are smooth and still.
The flowers that in the summer
Were beautiful and bright,
And forest-trees, have perished,
With all that gave delight.
Where'er we look around us,
We see but stern decay:
On plain, or in the valley,
The glory's passed away.
To The March Wind
Poet: John Franklin Bair
Blow March Wind, with your whistle and roar,
Your blustering days will soon be o'er ;
Blow your loud blasts throughout the long night,
Cover the ground with blankets of white.
Rattle the windows and slam the door,
Soon we will hear you whistle no more;
For Old Sol now is mounting the sky,
Spring birds are coming and April is nigh.
Pile the white snowdrifts high if you will,
Over each doorstep and on window sill;
Bite the tips of our fingers to day,
Doubtless, tomorrow you'll vanish away.
When the South Wind blows gently, you'll hide
Away to the North, we'll bid you goodbye,
And for eight months, or probably more,
We'll not feel your breath or hear your loud roar.
We do not hate you, old March Wind, O no!
We like you in Winter, but now you should go,
Farewell, and when the warm season is o'er,
We'll welcome again your whistle and roar.
When April Come
Poet: J. B. Selkirk
April comes through sun and gloom,
And tempts from winter's willing womb
The life that gladdens flower and tree,
The frisking lambs are on the lee,
And linnets in the budding broom.
All happy living things for whom
Our kindly mother-earth makes room,
Seem happier in their new-born glee
When April comes.
Alas! alas! its fairest bloom
Is poor and powerless to illume
The darkness which it brings to me;
Henceforth, in all my years to be,
I plant fresh flowers about a tomb
When April comes.
Poet: Greta Zwaan, 2002
I grieve, I lament, I sorrow in remorse of what has occurred;
Summer has left without fanfare, left without saying a word.
Was there no way to dissuade it? Was there no way to hang on?
Could we have extended its glory? Who said to summer, "Be gone?"
I never had time for exploring, to follow the brook to its end;
To watch the sunset at evening, to spend extra time with a friend.
The flowers I planted are wilting, there's danger of frost in the night;
The robins, the sparrows, the swallows have gone, they've all taken flight.
Summer gives two months of pleasure; winter, so long, such a trial.
Curtailed are the joys of warm sunshine, I cringe and go into denial!
I know there are winter fanatics, whose joy is to run their ski-doo;
Or race down a snow-covered hillside, as if skiing were something brand new.
But for me? I cringe in a snowstorm with ice underfoot everywhere,
I gingerly tread on the sidewalk, I move with the greatest of care.
I'm dressed head to toe in a snowsuit, a scarf that must cover my face,
My boots are encumbered with icers; they're safe, but they slow down my pace.
See what I mean by the torment? See why I miss summer so?
Please! Tell me how I can retrieve it? It's essential, I really must know.
Perhaps there's a period of waiting; if must be, I'll have to agree.
Just as long as it's not gone forever, and soon the spring dew I shall see.
Not knowing is what has me worried; as long as I know, it's okay.
I'll try to endure winter's dark days, if summer returns here some day.
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