28 Poems About The Seasons, Short Poems

28 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.

Short Poems    /    Poems About The Seasons

1. Autumn Poems 2. Months In Each Season
3. October Poems 4. Spring Poems
5. Winter Poems 6. Autumn
7. Make Me Mellow 8. Crumbs
9. Later On 10. Autumn Woods
11. Autumn In The Garden 12. Stern Winter
13.A Summer Morning 14. Spring, Summer, Autumn Poems
15. Children Of The Spring  

  1. The Seasons
    Poet: Unknown

    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.

  2. Spring forever appears the soothing music part of lyrics unspoken. It thaws the frozen fears, mends the wounded heart that Winter has broken. Aarno Davidson

  3. Spring Fever
    Poet: Douglas Malloch

    Not exactly lazy -
    Yet I want to sit
    In the momin' hazy
    An' jest dream a bit.
    Haven't got ambition
    Fer a single thing -
    Regaler condition
    Ev'ry bloomin' Spring.

    Want to sleep at noontime
    (Ought to work instead),
    But along at moontime
    Hate to go to bed.
    Find myself a-stealin'
    Fer a sunny spot -
    Jest that Springy feelin',
    That is what I've got.

    Like to set a-wishin'
    Fer a pipe an' book.
    Like to go a-fishin'
    In a meadow-brook
    With some fish deceiver,
    Underneath a tree -
    Jest the old Spring fever.
    That's what's ailing me!

  4. Summer Days
    Poet Unknown

    In summer, when the days were long,
    We walked together in the wood:
    Our heart was light, our steps were strong;
    Sweet fluttering were there in our blood,
    In summer, when the days were long.

    We strayed from morn till evening came;
    We gathered flowers, and wove us crowns;
    We walked mid poppies red as flame,
    Or sat upon the yellow downs;
    And always wished our life the same.

    In summer, when the days were long,
    We leaped the hedge-row, crossed the brook;
    And still her voice flowed forth in song,
    Or else she read some graceful book,
    In summer, when the days were long.

    And then we sat beneath the trees,
    With shadows lessening in the noon;
    And in the sunlight and the breeze,
    We feasted many a gorgeous June,
    While larks were singing o'er the leas.

    In summer, when the days were long,
    On dainty chicken, snow-white bread,
    We feasted, with no grace but song;
    We plucked wild strawberries, ripe and red,
    In summer, when the days were long.

    We loved, and yet we knew it not,
    For loving seemed like breathing then;
    We found a heaven in every spot;
    Saw angels, too, in all good men;
    And dreamed of God in grove and grot.

    In summer, when the days are long,
    Alone I wander, muse alone.
    I see her not; but that old song
    Under the fragrant wind is blown,
    In summer, when the days are long.

    Alone I wander in the wood:
    But one fair spirit hears my sighs;
    And half I see, so glad and good,
    The honest daylight of her eyes,
    That charmed me under earlier skies.

    In summer, when the days are long,
    I love her as we loved of old.
    My heart is light, my step is strong;
    For love brings back those hours of gold,
    In summer, when the days are long.

  5. September
    Poet: Helen Hunt Jackson

    The goldenrod is yellow.
    The corn is turning brown,
    The trees in apple orchards
    With fruit are bending down.

    The gentian's bluest fringes
    Are curling in the sun,
    In dusty pods the milkweed
    Its hidden silk has spun.

    The sedges flaunt their harvest,
    In every meadow nook,
    And asters by the brook-side
    Make asters in the brook.

    From dewy lanes at morning
    The grapes' sweet odors rise.
    At noon the roads all flutter
    With yellow butterflies.

    By all these lovely tokens,
    September days are here,
    With summer's best of weather,
    And autumn's best of cheer.

  6. May
    Poet: Eloise A. Skimings

    How fragrant the balm laden air!
    All nature seems glad and gay;
    The birds warble their notes of praise.
    This glorious month of May.

    The trees, flowar-crowned, rejoice
    Since winter has lost his sway;
    Emblem of the resurrection,
    This flowery month of May.

    Then let us the Almighty praise,
    Who will wash our sins away,
    And clothe us with garbs of purity
    Like the trees this month of May,

  7. Spring's Promise
    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.

  8. July
    Poet Unknown

    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!

  9. The shortest day of the year, the winter solstice, is a reminder from the natural world that life itself is short, and that if we want to change certain aspects of our lives, the time is now.

  10. Winter
    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.

  11. A Snowflake
    by Harriet Louise Jerome

    I am just a little snowflake,
    Soft and white and fluttering,
    Light enough to drift on breezes -
    Just a whisper of a thing.

    Beautiful as truth, and graceful
    As a pure ennobling thought,
    For, to Nature’s law obedient,
    Perfect symmetry I sought.

    Just a stainless, glistening snowflake,
    Just a bit of God’s own love,
    Caught and crystalized in whiteness,
    Wafted from the heavens above.

  12. 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.

  13. 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.

  14. Summers Demise
    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.

  15. Song Of The Snowflakes
    Poet: John Franklin Bair

    From clouds o'erhead we gently fall,
    To bring to earth a cover,
    On meadows, hills and trees and roofs,
    We spread white blankets over.

    At ev'ning, first a few upon
    Our downward journey started,
    But ere midnight, ten million more
    Had from the clouds departed.

    Throughout the night, till morning dawn,
    Upon the air we floated,
    And when the dawn of day appeared,
    O'er ev'rything we gloated.

    Then up arose the fierce north wind,
    And with a cruel laughter,
    It blew us from our resting place,
    And many miles chased after.

    O'er hills and fields it carried us,
    Then tossed us in a hollow,
    Where we held fast and many more
    Upon our track did follow.

    Along there came a rumbling train
    And swiftly plunged into us,
    It whistled, puffed, but soon found out
    It never could plow through us.

    Next morning dawned quite warm and clear,
    We saw Old Sol look cunning,
    As if he meant to say to us,
    I soon will set you running.

    He then began to shed his heat,
    Then we all took to crying,
    He melted us to tears so fast,
    Like lard in caldrons frying.

    Before the day was done each flake
    Had melted and departed,
    To our surprise we found that we
    Were back to where we started.

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to inspire you to enjoy each season

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