Sinopsis

How Strange the cold ungenial atmosphere, Beneath the cover of so bright a sky ! Each way-side flower hath oped its little eye ; The very coyest buds of all the year Have ventured forth to see if all be clear. Full-leaved the pendant birches droop and sigh ; The oak is clothed iu vernal majesty ; White-chaliced lilies float upon the mere. The very warmth that made this world of beauty Is summon'd to another tract of duty, And leaves a substitute so stern and cold, We half regret old Winter's honest rule. The roaring chimney and the log of yule : May hath such airs as May had not of old. SONNETS ON THE SEASONS. IX.