I chide not at the seasons, for if Spring
With backward look refuses to be fair,
My Love still more than April makes me sing,
And shows May blossom in the bleak March air.
Should Summer fail its tryst, or June delay
To wreathe my porch with roses red and pale,
Her breath is sweeter than the new-mown hay,
Her touch more clinging than the woodbine's trail.
Let Autumn like a spendthrift waste the year,
And reap no harvest save the fallen leaves,
My Love still ripeneth, though she grows not sere,
And smiles enthroned upon our piled-up sheaves.
And last, when miser Winter docks the days,
She warms my hearth and keeps my hopes ablaze.
I Chide Not At The Seasons
Alfred Austin
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Poem topics: autumn, breath, june, red, spring, summer, winter, touch, march, year, waste, save, fallen, delay, april, april fools, love, I love you, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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Write your comment about I Chide Not At The Seasons poem by Alfred Austin
elizabeth nikitin: Very pleasing - I would have voted for this piece, but am not a member
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