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2. These foldings up of daylight speak
Something to be done:
Of a parting sun.
To the grave hath run.
146.-THOUGHTS ON THE SEASONS.
[WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.] Flattered with promise of escape
From every hurtful blast, Spring takes, O sprightly May, thy shape,
Her loveliest and her last.
Less fair is Summer, riding high
In fierce solstitial power,
Brings on her parting hour.
The labours of the plough,
All brighten on the bough:
What pensive beauty Autumn shews,
Before she hears the sound
The emblematic round!
Such be our Spring; our Summer such;
So may our Autumn blend
Through heaven-born Hope, her end.
147.-AUTUMN. [JOHN KEATS.]
1. Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness !
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves To bend with apples the moss'd cottage trees, (run;
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd; to plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more And still more, later flowers for the bees; Until they think warm days will never cease, For summer has o'er-brimmed their clammy cells.
2. Where are the songs of spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them. Thou hast thy music too, While floating clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies, Or full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourne;
Hedge crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden croft, And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
148.-LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING.
While in the grove I sat reclined,
The human soul that through me ran;
The Periwinkle trained its wreaths;
Enjoys the air it breathes.
Their thoughts I cannot measure
To catch the breezy air;
If such be Nature's holy plan,
What man has made of man?
149.-WINTER. (JAMES THOMPSON.] The keener tempests rise. Thick clouds ascend, And the sky saddens with the gathering storm. Through the hushed air the whitening shower de
scends, At first thin wavering, till at last the flakes Fall broad, and wide, and fast, dimming the day With a continual flow. The cherished fields Put on their winter robe of purest white; 'Tis whiteness all, save where the new snow melts Along the mazy streamlet.
streamlet. Low the woods
Bow their hoar heads: and ere the languid sun,
150.- THE POET'S WISH.
O, for the coming of that glorious time