57 Transformative Poems About Seasons

Photo of author
Updated on

Here are my favorite poems about seasons categorized:

  • Poems about seasons by famous poets
  • Short poems about seasons
  • Beautiful poems about seasons

So if you’re looking for the best poems about seasons, then you are in the right place.

Keep reading!

55 Best Poems About Seasons (Handpicked)
Contents: hide

Transformative Poems About Seasons

Indulge in the mesmerizing beauty of nature’s cycles with our collection of the best poems about seasons.

Whether you’re seeking timeless classics from famous poets or hidden gems that showcase the magic of each season, this hand-picked selection offers something for every poetry lover.

Explore the vibrant renewal of spring, the warmth of summer, the colorful splendor of autumn, and the quiet stillness of winter, and allow these words to inspire and connect you to the natural world.

Let’s jump right in!

My #1 Favorite Poem About Seasons

Beautiful woman in the field with flowers.

“Seasons” by Christina Georgina Rossetti

In spring time when the leaves are young,
Clear dewdrops gleam like jewels, hung
On boughs the fair birds roost among.

When summer comes with sweet unrest,
Birds weary of their mother’s breast,
And look abroad and leave the nest.

In autumn ere the waters freeze,
The swallows fly across the seas: —
If we could fly away with these! —

In winter when the birds are gone,
The sun himself looks starved and wan,
And starved the snow he shines upon.

Poems About Seasons by Famous Poets

Autumn trees in deciduous forest, blue sky above.

“The Seasons’ Comfort” by Robert Laurence Binyon

O Summer sun, O moving trees!
O cheerful human noise, O busy glittering street!
What hour shall Fate in all the future find,
Or what delights, ever to equal these:
Only to taste the warmth, the light, the wind,
Only to be alive, and feel that life is sweet?

“The Seasons Of Her Year” by Thomas Hardy


Winter is white on turf and tree,
And birds are fled;
But summer songsters pipe to me,
And petals spread,
For what I dreamt of secretly
His lips have said!


O ’tis a fine May morn, they say,
And blooms have blown;
But wild and wintry is my day,
My birds make moan;
For he who vowed leaves me to pay

“An Earth Song” by Langston Hughes

It’s an earth song,—
And I’ve been waiting long for an earth song.
It’s a spring song,—
And I’ve been waiting long for a spring song.
Strong as the shoots of a new plant
Strong as the bursting of new buds
Strong as the coming of the first child from its mother’s womb.
It’s an earth song,
A body song,
A spring song,
I have been waiting long for this spring song.

Beautiful sunset by the evening sea.

“Summer Night, Riverside” by Sara Teasdale

In the wild soft summer darkness
How many and many a night we two together
Sat in the park and watched the Hudson
Wearing her lights like golden spangles
Glinting on black satin.
The rail along the curving pathway
Was low in a happy place to let us cross,
And down the hill a tree that dripped with bloom
Sheltered us,
While your kisses and the flowers,
Falling, falling,
Tangled in my hair….
The frail white stars moved slowly over the sky.
And now, far off
In the fragrant darkness
The tree is tremulous again with bloom
For June comes back.
To-night what girl
Dreamily before her mirror shakes from her hair
This year’s blossoms, clinging to its coils?

“A Prayer in Spring” by Robert Frost

Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers to-day;
And give us not to think so far away
As the uncertain harvest; keep us here
All simply in the springing of the year.

Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white,
Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night;
And make us happy in the happy bees,
The swarm dilating round the perfect trees.

And make us happy in the darting bird
That suddenly above the bees is heard,
The meteor that thrusts in with needle bill,
And off a blossom in mid air stands still.

For this is love and nothing else is love,
The which it is reserved for God above
To sanctify to what far ends He will,
But which it only needs that we fulfil.

“Seasons” by Madison Julius Cawein

I heard the forest’s green heart beat
As if it heard the happy feet
Of one who came, like young Desire:
At whose fair coming birds and flowers
Sprang up, and Beauty, filled with fire,
Touched lips with Song amid the bowers
And Love led on the dancing Hours.


And then I heard a voice that rang,
And to the leaves and blossoms sang:
‘My child is Life: I dwell with Truth:
I am the Spirit glad of Birth:
I bring to all things joy and youth:
I am the rapture of the Earth.
Come look on me and know my worth.’


And then the woodland heaved a sigh,
As if it saw a shape go by
A shape of sorrow or of dread,
That seemed to move as moves a mist,
And left the leaves and flowers dead,
And with cold lips my forehead kissed,
While phantoms all around held tryst.


And then I heard a voice that spoke
Unto the fading beech and oak:
‘I am the Spirit of Decay,
Whose child is Death, that means relief:
I breathe and all things pass away:
I am Earth’s glory and its grief.
Come look on me: thy time is brief.’

Winter landscape with sun and frozen river.

“Winter’s Beauty” by William H. Davies

Is it not fine to walk in spring,
When leaves are born, and hear birds sing?
And when they lose their singing powers,
In summer, watch the bees at flowers?
Is it not fine, when summer’s past,
To have the leaves, no longer fast,
Biting my heel where’er I go,
Or dancing lightly on my toe?
Now winter’s here and rivers freeze;
As I walk out I see the trees,
Wherein the pretty squirrels sleep,
All standing in the snow so deep:
And every twig, however small,
Is blossomed white and beautiful.
Then welcome, winter, with thy power
To make this tree a big white flower;
To make this tree a lovely sight,
With fifty brown arms draped in white,
While thousands of small fingers show
In soft white gloves of purest snow.

“Winter and Summer” by Oliver Herford

In Winter when the air is chill,
And winds are blowing loud and shrill,
All snug and warm I sit and purr,
Wrapped in my overcoat of fur.

In Summer quite the other way,
I find it very hot all day,
But Human People do not care,
For they have nice thin clothes to wear.

And does it not seem hard to you,
When all the world is like a stew,
And I am much too warm to purr,
I have to wear my Winter Fur?

“Spring” by Alfred Lord Tennyson

Birds’ love and birds’ song
Flying here and there,
Birds’ songand birds’ love
And you with gold for hair!
Birds’ songand birds’ love
Passing with the weather,
Men’s song and men’s love,
To love once and forever.

Men’s love and birds’ love,
And women’s love and men’s!
And you my wren with a crown of gold,
You my queen of the wrens!
You the queen of the wrens —
We’ll be birds of a feather,
I’ll be King of the Queen of the wrens,
And all in a nest together.

young woman holding a flower in beautiful white dress sitting outdoor

“Spring and Autumn” by Thomas Moore

Every season hath its pleasures;
Spring may boast her flowery prime,
Yet the vineyard’s ruby treasures
Brighten Autumn’s soberer time.
So Life’s year begins and closes;
Days tho’ shortening still can shine;
What tho’ youth gave love and roses,
Age still leaves us friends and wine.

Phillis, when she might have caught me,
All the Spring looked coy and shy,
Yet herself in Autumn sought me,
When the flowers were all gone by.
Ah, too late;–she found her lover
Calm and free beneath his vine,
Drinking to the Spring-time over,
In his best autumnal wine.

Thus may we, as years are flying,
To their flight our pleasures suit,
Nor regret the blossoms dying,
While we still may taste the fruit,
Oh, while days like this are ours,
Where’s the lip that dares repine?
Spring may take our loves and flowers,
So Autumn leaves us friends and wine.

“Autumn Day” by Rainer Maria Rilke

Lord: it is time. The summer was so grand.
Upon sundials now Thy shadow lay,
Set free Thy winds and send them o’er the land.

Command to ripen those last fruits of Thine;
And give them two more southern days of grace
To reach their perfect fullness, and then chase
The final sweetness into heavy wine.

Who now is homeless, ne’er will build a home.
Who now is lonely, long alone will stay,
Will watch and read and write long letters gray,
And in the long lanes to and fro will roam
All restless, as the drifting fall-leaves stray.

“Spring” by John Clare

What charms does Nature at the spring put on,
When hedges unperceived get stain’d in green;
When even moss, that gathers on the stone,
Crown’d with its little knobs of flowers is seen;
And every road and lane, through field and glen,
Triumphant boasts a garden of its own.
In spite of nipping sheep, and hungry cow,
The little daisy finds a place to blow:
And where old Winter leaves her splashy slough,
The lady-smocks will not disdain to grow;
And dandelions like to suns will bloom,
Aside some bank or hillock creeping low;–
Though each too often meets a hasty doom
From trampling clowns, who heed not where they go.

Girl holding a yellow buttercup flower plant in the forest.

“Summer” by John Clare

How sweet, when weary, dropping on a bank,
Turning a look around on things that be!
E’en feather-headed grasses, spindling rank,
A trembling to the breeze one loves to see;
And yellow buttercup, where many a bee
Comes buzzing to its head and bows it down;
And the great dragon-fly with gauzy wings,
In gilded coat of purple, green, or brown,
That on broad leaves of hazel basking clings,
Fond of the sunny day:–and other things
Past counting, please me while thus here I lie.
But still reflective pains are not forgot:
Summer sometime shall bless this spot, when I
Hapt in the cold dark grave, can heed it not.

“Winter” by H. P. Nichols

With my breath so keen and chilling,
I have stripped the branches bare;
And my snow-flakes white are filling,
Feather-like, the frosty air.

Coming o’er the lofty mountains,
There I left a robe of white;
I have locked the sparkling fountains,
I have chained the river bright.

O’er the quiet valley winging,
There I left my traces, too;
Hark! the merry sleigh-bells ringing,
With their music call on you.

I have come! The school-boy shouting,
Joyfully brings out his sled;
He has seen me, nothing doubting,
As across the fields he sped.

I have come; but shall I find you
Better than the former year?
If you’ve cast your faults behind you,
I shall gladly greet you here.

“The Autumn” by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Go, sit upon the lofty hill,
And turn your eyes around,
Where waving woods and waters wild
Do hymn an autumn sound.
The summer sun is faint on them —
The summer flowers depart —
Sit still — as all transform’d to stone,
Except your musing heart.

How there you sat in summer-time,
May yet be in your mind;
And how you heard the green woods sing
Beneath the freshening wind.
Though the same wind now blows around,
You would its blast recall;
For every breath that stirs the trees,
Doth cause a leaf to fall.

Oh! like that wind, is all the mirth
That flesh and dust impart:
We cannot bear its visitings,
When change is on the heart.
Gay words and jests may make us smile,
When Sorrow is asleep;
But other things must make us smile,
When Sorrow bids us weep!

The dearest hands that clasp our hands, —
Their presence may be o’er;
The dearest voice that meets our ear,
That tone may come no more!
Youth fades; and then, the joys of youth,
Which once refresh’d our mind,
Shall come — as, on those sighing woods,
The chilling autumn wind.

Hear not the wind — view not the woods;
Look out o’er vale and hill-
In spring, the sky encircled them —
The sky is round them still.
Come autumn’s scathe — come winter’s cold —
Come change — and human fate!
Whatever prospect Heaven doth bound,
Can ne’er be desolate.

A sunrise on a cold winter morning.

“Summer” by Christina Rossetti

Winter is cold-hearted,
Spring is yea and nay,
Autumn is a weathercock
Blown every way:
Summer days for me
When every leaf is on its tree;

When Robin’s not a beggar,
And Jenny Wren’s a bride,
And larks hang singing, singing, singing,
Over the wheat-fields wide,
And anchored lilies ride,
And the pendulum spider
Swings from side to side,

And blue-black beetles transact business,
And gnats fly in a host,
And furry caterpillars hasten
That no time be lost,
And moths grow fat and thrive,
And ladybirds arrive.

Before green apples blush,
Before green nuts embrown,
Why, one day in the country
Is worth a month in town;
Is worth a day and a year
Of the dusty, musty, lag-last fashion
That days drone elsewhere.

“Summer and Winter” by Percy Bysshe Shelley

It was a bright and cheerful afternoon,
Towards the end of the sunny month of June,
When the north wind congregates in crowds
The floating mountains of the silver clouds
From the horizon—and the stainless sky
Opens beyond them like eternity.
All things rejoiced beneath the sun; the weeds,
The river, and the corn-fields, and the reeds;
The willow leaves that glanced in the light breeze,
And the firm foliage of the larger trees.

It was a winter such as when birds die
In the deep forests; and the fishes lie
Stiffened in the translucent ice, which makes
Even the mud and slime of the warm lakes
A wrinkled clod as hard as brick; and when,
Among their children, comfortable men
Gather about great fires, and yet feel cold:
Alas, then, for the homeless beggar old!

“Autumn” by John Clare

I love the fitful gust that shakes
The casement all the day,
And from the glossy elm tree takes
The faded leaves away,
Twirling them by the window pane
With thousand others down the lane.

I love to see the shaking twig
Dance till the shut of eve,
The sparrow on the cottage rig,
Whose chirp would make believe
That Spring was just now flirting by
In Summer’s lap with flowers to lie.

I love to see the cottage smoke
Curl upwards through the trees,
The pigeons nestled round the cote
On November days like these;
The cock upon the dunghill crowing,
The mill sails on the heath a-going.

The feather from the raven’s breast
Falls on the stubble lea,
The acorns near the old crow’s nest
Drop pattering down the tree;
The grunting pigs, that wait for all,
Scramble and hurry where they fall.

Rustic garden vintage chimney house roof with bare branches in a foggy morning fall season.

“Summer’s Ending” by Andrew Lang

The flags below the shadowy fern
Shine like spears between sun and sea,
The tide and the summer begin to turn,
And ah, for hearts, for hearts that yearn,
For fires of autumn that catch and burn,
For love gone out between thee and me.

The wind is up, and the weather broken,
Blue seas, blue eyes, are grieved and grey,
Listen, the word that the wind has spoken,
Listen, the sound of the sea,—a token
That summer’s over, and troths are broken,—
That loves depart as the hours decay.

A love has passed to the loves passed over,
A month has fled to the months gone by;
And none may follow, and none recover
July and June, and never a lover
May stay the wings of the Loves that hover,
As fleet as the light in a sunset sky.

“Woods in Winter” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

WHEN winter winds are piercing chill,
And through the white-thorn blows the gale,
With solemn feet I tread the hill,
That over-brows the lonely vale.

O’er the bare upland, and away
Through the long reach of desert woods,
The embracing sun-beams chastely play,
And gladden these deep solitudes.

On the gray maple’s crusted bark
Its tender shoots the hoar-frost nips ;
Whilst in the frozen fountain, hark!
His piercing beak the bittern dips.

Where, twisted round the barren oak,
The summer vine in beauty clung,
And summer winds the stillness broke,
The crystal icicle is hung.

Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs
Pour out the river’s gradual tide,
Shrilly the skater’s iron rings,
And voices fill the woodland side.

Alas! how changed from the fair scene,
When birds sang out their mellow lay ;
And winds were soft, and woods were green.
And the song ceased not with the day.

But still wild music is abroad,
Pale, desert woods, within your crowd ;
And gathered winds, in hoarse accord,
Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud.

Chill airs, and wintry winds, my ear
Has grown familiar with your song;
I hear it in the opening year, —
I listen, and it cheers me long.

Short Poems About Seasons

Maple leaf transition from season to season.

“Seasons” by Unknown

There was a young fellow named Hall,
Who fell in the spring in the fall;
‘Twould have been a sad thing
If he’d died in the spring,
But he didn’t – he died in the fall.

“The Seasons” by William Browne

The year hath first his jocund spring,
Wherein the leaves, to birds’ sweet carolling,
Dance with the wind; then sees the summer’s day
Perfect the embryon blossom of each spray;
Next cometh autumn, when the threshë”d sheaf
Loseth his grain, and every tree his leaf;
Lastly, cold winter’s rage, with many a storm,
Threats the proud pines which Ida’s top adorn,
And makes the sap leave succourless the shoot,
Shrinking to comfort his decaying root.

“Autumn” by Emily Dickinson

The morns are meeker than they were,
The nuts are getting brown;
The berry’s cheek is plumper,
The rose is out of town.

The maple wears a gayer scarf,
The field a scarlet gown.
Lest I should be old-fashioned,
I’ll put a trinket on.

Woman in embroidery shirt holds the sun in hands in field of red poppies.

“July” by Henrietta Cordelia Ray

Sunshine and shadow play amid the trees
In bosky groves, while from the vivid sky
The sun’s gold arrows fleck the fields at noon,
Where weary cattle to their slumber hie.
How sweet the music of the purling rill,
Trickling adown the grassy hill!
While dreamy fancies come to give repose
When the first star of evening glows.

“Spring” by Charles D’Orleans

The year has changed his mantle cold
Of wind, of rain, of bitter air;
And he goes clad in cloth of gold,
Of laughing suns and season fair;
No bird or beast of wood or wold
But doth with cry or song declare
The year lays down his mantle cold.
All founts, all rivers, seaward rolled,
The pleasant summer livery wear,
With silver studs on broidered vair;
The world puts off its raiment old,
The year lays down his mantle cold.

“Spring” by Unknown

In the spring the housemaid’s fancy
Lightly turns from pot and pan
To the greater necromancy
Of a young unmarried man.
You can hold her through the winter,
And she’ll work around and sing,
But it’s just as good as certain
She will marry in the spring.

Robin perching on snow-topped fence.

“Winter” by Walter De La Mare

Clouded with snow
The cold winds blow,
And shrill on leafless bough
The robin with its burning breast
Alone sings now.

The rayless sun,
Day’s journey done,
Sheds its last ebbing light
On fields in leagues of beauty spread
Unearthly white.

Thick draws the dark,
And spark by spark,
The frost-fires kindle, and soon
Over that sea of frozen foam
Floats the white moon.

“The Spring Afterwards” by Margaret Steele Anderson

Ah, give again the pitiless snow and sleet
November’s leaves, or raving winds, that beat
The heart’s own doors, or rain’s long ache and fret!
Only, not spring and all this delicate sweet!
Or not this vision of a girl, so set
In April grass, in April violet!

“Summer Dawn” by William Morris

Pray but one prayer for me ‘twixt thy closed lips;
Think but one thought of me up in the stars.
The summer night waneth, the morning light slips,
Faint and grey ‘twixt the leaves of the aspen, betwixt the cloud-bars,
That are patiently waiting there for the dawn:
Patient and colourless, though Heaven’s gold
Waits to float through them along with the sun.
Far out in the meadows, above the young corn,
The heavy elms wait, and restless and cold
The uneasy wind rises; the roses are dun;
They pray the long gloom through for daylight new born,
Round the lone house in the midst of the corn.
Speak but one word to me over the corn,
Over the tender, bow’d locks of the corn.

falling leaves blowing in the wind in autumn forest.

“Autumn” by Rainer Maria Rilke

The leaves are falling, falling as from far,
As if far gardens in the skies were dying;
They fall, and ever seem to be denying.

And in the night the earth, a heavy ball,
Into a starless solitude must fall.

We all are falling. My own hand no less
Than all things else; behold, it is in all.
Yet there is One who, utter gentleness,
Holds all this falling in His hands to bless.

“Longing for Spring” by Walter von der Vogelweide

Alas, the winter has hurt us everywhere.
The forest and the heath are both so bare,
Where many a sweet voice resounded through the air.
Ah, if on the street I saw the maidens fair
Play ball, the songs of birds would be there.

I should like to sleep through winter’s delay.
Jealous I grow when awake I stay,
Because the winter has such a mighty sway.
God knows at last he yields unto May,
Where the frost lies now, I’ll pluck a nosegay.

“Autumn” by William Browne

Autumn it was when droop’d the sweetest flow’rs,
And rivers, swoll’n with pride, o’erlook’d the banks;
Poor grew the day of summer’s golden hours,
And void of sap stood Ida’s cedar-ranks.
The pleasant meadows sadly lay
In chill and cooling sweats
By rising fountains, or as they
Fear’d winter’s wastfull threats.

Blue crocuses grow in the meadow in spring.

“Spring” by Lizzie Lawson

The tiny crocus is so bold
It peeps its head above the mould,
Before the flowers awaken,
To say that spring is coming, dear,
With sunshine and that winter drear
Will soon be overtaken.

“Has Spring Passed Away?” by Jitō Tennō, Trans. by Yone Noguchi

Has Spring passed away?
Did Summer already come?
Lo, Kagu Yama! There
The white gowns are seen being dried.

“Spring Song” by Dorothy Parker

Enter April, laughingly,
Blossoms in her tumbled hair,
High of heart, and fancy-free—
When was maiden half so fair?
Bright her eyes with easy tears,
Wanton-sweet, her smiles for men.
“Winter’s gone,” she cries, “and here’s Spring again.”

When we loved, ‘twas April, too;
Madcap April—urged us on.
Just as she did, so did you—
Sighed, and smiled, and then were gone.
How she plied her pretty arts,
How she laughed and sparkled then!
April, make love in our hearts
Spring again!

spring flower in a rustic pot on concrete dock, a boat and calm sea in the background.

“Water Front Streets” by Langston Hughes

The spring is not so beautiful there,––
But dream ships sail away
To where the spring is wondrous rare
And life is gay.

The spring is not so beautiful there,––
But lads put out to sea
Who carry beauties in their hearts
And dreams, like me.

“Autumn” by Thomas Hood

The Autumn skies are flush’d with gold,
And fair and bright the rivers run;
These are but streams of winter cold,
And painted mists that quench the sun.

In secret boughs no sweet birds sing,
In secret boughs no bird can shroud;
These are but leaves that take to wing,
And wintry winds that pipe so loud.

‘Tis not trees’ shade, but cloudy glooms
That on the cheerless valleys fall,
The flowers are in their grassy tombs,
And tears of dew are on them all.

“Summer’s Night” by Paul Laurence Dunbar

The night is dewy as a maiden’s mouth,
The skies are bright as are a maiden’s eyes,
Soft as a maiden’s breath the wind that flies
Up from the perfumed bosom of the South.
Like sentinels, the pines stand in the park;
And hither hastening, like rakes that roam,
With lamps to light their wayward footsteps home,
The fireflies come stagg’ring down the dark.

Beautiful Poems About Seasons

White grand piano and white staircase outdoors in spring.

“Spring Song” by Paul Laurence Dunbar

A blue-bell springs upon the ledge,
A lark sits singing in the hedge;
Sweet perfumes scent the balmy air,
And life is brimming everywhere.
What lark and breeze and bluebird sing,
Is Spring, Spring, Spring!

No more the air is sharp and cold;
The planter wends across the wold,
And, glad, beneath the shining sky
We wander forth, my love and I.
And ever in our hearts doth ring
This song of Spring, Spring!

For life is life and love is love,
‘Twixt maid and man or dove and dove.
Life may be short, life may be long,
But love will come, and to its song
Shall this refrain for ever cling
Of Spring, Spring, Spring!

“The Seasons Moralized” by Philip Freneau

They who to warmer regions run,
May bless the favour of the sun,
But seek in vain what charms us here,
Life’s picture, varying with the year.

Spring, and her wanton train advance
Like Youth to lead the festive dance,
All, all her scenes are mirth and play,
And blushing blossoms own her sway.

The Summer next (those blossoms blown)
Brings on the fruits that spring had sown,
Thus men advance, impelled by time,
And Nature triumphs in her prime.

Then Autumn crowns the beauteous year,
The groves a sicklier aspect wear;
And mournful she (the lot of all)
Matures her fruits, to make them fall.

Clad in the vestments of a tomb,
Old age is only Winter’s gloom—
Winter, alas! shall spring restore,
But youth returns to man no more.

“Spring Thunder” by Mark Van Doren

Listen. The wind is still,
And far away in the night—
See! The uplands fill
With a running light.

Open the doors. It is warm;
And where the sky was clear —
Look! The head of a storm
That marches here!

Come under the trembling hedge—
Fast, although you fumble. . . .
There! Did you hear the edge
Of winter crumble?

Spring garden nature landscape with wild purple spring flowers.

“May to April” by Philip Freneau

Without your showers, I breed no flowers,
Each field a barren waste appears;
If you don’t weep, my blossoms sleep,
They take such pleasures in your tears.

As your decay made room for May,
So I must part with all that’s mine:
My balmy breeze, my blooming trees
To torrid suns their sweets resign!

O’er April dead, my shades I spread:
To her I owe my dress so gay—
Of daughters three, it falls on me
To close our triumphs on one day:

Thus, to repose, all Nature goes;
Month after month must find its doom:
Time on the wing, May ends the Spring,
And Summer dances on her tomb!

“After the Winter Rain” by Ina Coolbrith

After the winter rain,
Sing, robin! Sing, swallow!
Grasses are in the lane,
Buds and flowers will follow.

Woods shall ring, blithe and gay,
With bird-trill and twitter,
Though the skies weep to-day,
And the winds are bitter.

Though deep call unto deep
As calls the thunder,
And white the billows leap
The tempest under;

Softly the waves shall come
Up the long, bright beaches,
With dainty, flowers of foam
And tenderest speeches…

After the wintry pain,
And the long, long sorrow,
Sing, heart!—for thee again
Joy comes with the morrow.

“A Psyche of Spring” by George Marion McClellan

Thou gaily painted butterfly, exquisite thing,
A child of light and blending rainbow hues,
In loveliness a Psyche of the Spring,
Companion for the rose and diamond dews;
‘Tis thine, in sportive joy, from hour to hour,
To ride the breeze from flower to flower.

But thou wast once a worm of hueless dye.
Now, seeing thee, gay thing, afloat in bliss,
I take new hope in thoughts of bye and bye,
When I, as thou, have shed my chrysalis.
I dream now of eternal springs of light
In which, as thou, I too may have my flight.

Beautiful, lovely girl among the purple flowers in the field.

“Sonnet” by Alice Dunbar-Nelson

I had no thought of violets of late,
The wild, shy kind that spring beneath your feet
In wistful April days, when lovers mate
And wander through the fields in raptures sweet.
The thought of violets meant florists’ shops,
And bows and pins, and perfumed papers fine;
And garish lights, and mincing little fops
And cabarets and songs, and deadening wine.
So far from sweet real things my thoughts had strayed,
I had forgot wide fields, and clear brown streams
The perfect loveliness that God has made,—
Wild violets shy and Heaven-mounting dreams.
And now—unwittingly, you’ve made me dream
Of violets, and my soul’s forgotten gleam.

“August” by Dorothy Parker

When my eyes are weeds,
And my lips are petals, spinning
Down the wind that has beginning
Where the crumpled beeches start
In a fringe of salty reeds;
When my arms are elder-bushes,
And the rangy lilac pushes
Upward, upward through my heart;

Summer, do your worst!
Light your tinsel moon, and call on
Your performing stars to fall on
Headlong through your paper sky;
Nevermore shall I be cursed
By a flushes and amorous slattern,
With her dusty laces’ pattern
Trailing, as she straggles by.

“The Seasons of Love” by George Pope Morris

The spring-time of love
Is both happy and gay,
For joy sprinkles blossoms
And balm in our way;
The sky, earth, and ocean,
In beauty repose,
And all the bright future
Is coleur de rose.

The summer of love
Is the bloom of the heart,
When hill, grove, and valley,
Their music impart;
And the pure glow of heaven
Is seen in fond eyes,
As lakes show the rainbow
That’s hung in the skies.

The autumn of love
Is the season of cheer–
Life’s mild Indian summer,
The smile of the year!
Which comes when the golden
Ripe harvest is stored,
And yields its own blessings–
Repose and reward.

The winter of love
Is the beam that we win
While the storm scowls without,
From the sunshine within.
Love’s reign is eternal–
The heart is his throne,
And he has all seasons
Of life for his own.

Common cuckoo perched on a tree branch.

“When the Cuckoo Sings” by William H. Davies

In summer, when the Cuckoo sings,
And clouds like greater moons can shine;
When every leafy tree doth hold
A loving heart that beats with mine:
Now, when the Brook has cresses green,
As well as stones, to check his pace;
And, if the Owl appears, he’s forced
By small birds to some hiding-place:
Then, like red Robin in the spring,
I shun those haunts where men are found;
My house holds little joy until
Leaves fall and birds can make no sound;
Let none invade that wilderness
Into whose dark green depths I go—
Save some fine lady, all in white,
Comes like a pillar of pure snow.

“Autumn” by H. P. Nichols

Here’s the purple aster,
And the golden-rod,
And the blue fringed gentian,
By the meadow sod.

And the scarlet cardinal
Grows beside the brook,
And the yellow sunflower
In some sheltered nook.

Maple boughs are covered
With their foliage red,
And the withered elm leaves
On the ground lie dead.

And within the orchard,
Heavy-laden trees
Shower down the apples,
With each passing breeze.

So by these we know thee,
Lovely autumn time,
With thy deep blue heavens,
And thy snowy rime.

“The Broken Heart” by Andrew Lang

July, and June brought flowers and love
To you, but I would none thereof,
Whose heart kept all through summer time
A flower of frost and winter rime.
Yours was true wisdom—was it not?—
Even love; but I had clean forgot,
Till seasons of the falling leaf,
All loves, but one that turned to grief.
At length at touch of autumn tide,
When roses fell, and summer died,
All in a dawning deep with dew,
Love flew to me, love fled from you.

The roses drooped their weary heads,
I spoke among the garden beds;
You would not hear, you could not know,
Summer and love seemed long ago,
As far, as faint, as dim a dream,
As to the dead this world may seem.
Ah sweet, in winter’s miseries,
Perchance you may remember this,
How wisdom was not justified
In summer time or autumn-tide,
Though for this once below the sun,
Wisdom and love were made at one;
But love was bitter-bought enough,
And wisdom light of wing as love.

Autumn flowers in rustic jug on wooden table outdoor.

“Autumn’s Gold” by George MacDonald

Along the tops of all the yellow trees,
The golden-yellow trees, the sunshine lies;
And where the leaves are gone, long rays surprise
Lone depths of thicket with their brightnesses;
And through the woods, all waste of many a breeze,
Cometh more joy of light for Poet’s eyes–
Green fields lying yellow underneath the skies,
And shining houses and blue distances.

By the roadside, like rocks of golden ore
That make the western river-beds so bright,
The briar and the furze are all alight!
Perhaps the year will be so fair no more,
But now the fallen, falling leaves are gay,
And autumn old has shone into a Day!

“A Summer Evening” by George W. Doneghy


The sun has sunk in the crimson west,
And “around the languid eyes of day”
The Twilight’s dreamy shadows rest
And light and shade alternate play;
The winds are hushed, nor leaf nor flower
Is swayed with motion by their power.


The fireflies with meteor lamps
Arise from out the dewy lawn,
And there the elfin cricket chants
His vespers when the day is gone,
And far above, the sky’s coquette
With all her starry train is met.

“Spring” by Eliza Paul Kirkbride Gurney

Oh! the world looks glad, for the spring has smiled,
And the birds are come with their “wood-notes wild,”
And the waters leap with a joyous sound,
Like freedom’s voice when a chain’s unbound.

And soon with its bloom will the earth be gay,
For the air is bland as the breath of May;
Sunshine and buds and all glorious things
Will give to the hours their downiest wings.

Nature has burst from her wintry tomb,
Wreathed with the glory of brightening bloom;
Fetters of frost-work are gently unbound,
Blossoms and flowers are clustering round.

Bosoms that know not the blighting of care,
Sunshine and gladness may smilingly wear;
But for the broken and desolate heart
Springtime, alas! has no balm to impart.

Tones that are hushed it awakens no more;
“Friends that are gone” it can never restore;
Yet e’en to the mourner one hope it may bring,
‘Tis the type of Eternity’s glorious spring.

Happy girl in red dress in blooming spring garden.

“Spring” by Gerard Manley Hopkins

Nothing is so beautiful as spring –
When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush;
Thrush’s eggs look little low heavens, and thrush
Through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring
The ear, it strikes like lightnings to hear him sing;
The glassy peartree leaves and blooms, they brush
The descending blue; that blue is all in a rush
With richness; the racing lambs too have fair their fling.

What is all this juice and all this joy?
A strain of the earth’s sweet being in the beginning
In Eden garden. Have, get, before it cloy,
Before it cloud, Christ, lord, and sour with sinning,
Innocent mind and Mayday in girl and boy,
Most, O maid’s child, thy choice and worthy the winning.

“Summer Days” by Marietta Holley

Like emerald lakes the meadows lie,
And daisies dot the main;
The sunbeams from the deep blue sky
Drop down in golden rain,
And gild the lily’s silver bell,
And coax buds apart,
But I miss the sunshine of my youth,
The summer of my heart.

The wild birds sing the same glad song
They sang in days of yore;
The laughing rivulet glides along,
Low whispering to the shore,
And its mystic water turns to gold
The sunbeam’s quivering dart,
But I miss the sunshine of my youth,
The summer of my heart.

The south wind murmurs tenderly
To the complaining leaves;
The Flower Queen gorgeous tapestry
Of rose and purple weaves.
Yes, Nature’s smile, the wary while,
Wears all its olden truth,
But I miss the sunshine of my heart,
The summer of my youth.

“Summer Met Me” by Fay Inchfawn

Summer met me in the glade,
With a host of fair princesses,
Golden iris, foxgloves staid,
Sunbeams flecked their gorgeous dresses.
Roses followed in her train,
Creamy elder-flowers beset me,
Singing, down the scented lane,
Summer met me!

Summer met me! Harebells rang,
Honeysuckle clustered near,
As the royal pageant sang
Songs enchanting to the ear.
Rainy days may come apace,
Nevermore to grieve or fret me,
Since, in all her radiant grace,
Summer met me!