and yellow rose
And moss rose choice to find, 20
And the cottage cabbage rose
Not one whit behind.

On the blast of scorched July
Drives the pelting hail,
From thunderous lightning-clouds, that blot
Blue heaven grown lurid-pale.
Weedy waves are tossed ashore, 5
Sea-things strange to sight
Gasp upon the barren shore
And fade away in light.

In the parching August wind
Cornfields bow the head, 10
Sheltered in round valley depths,
On low hills outspread.
Early leaves drop loitering down
Weightless on the breeze,
First fruits of the year's decay 15
From the withering trees.

In brisk wind of September
The heavy-headed fruits
Shake upon their bending boughs
And drop from the shoots; 20
Some glow golden in the sun,
Some show green and streaked,
Some set forth a purple bloom,
Some blush rosy-cheeked.

In strong blast of October 5
At the equinox,
Stirred up in his hollow bed
Broad ocean rocks;
Plunge the ships on his bosom,
Leaps and plunges the foam, 10
It's oh! for mothers' sons at sea,
That they were safe at home.

In slack wind of November
The fog forms and shifts;
All the world comes out again 15
When the fog lifts.
Loosened from their sapless twigs
Leaves drop with every gust;
Drifting, rustling, out of sight
In the damp or dust. 20

Last of all, December,
The year's sands nearly run,
Speeds on the shortest day
Curtails the sun;
With its bleak raw wind
Lays the last leaves low,
Brings back the nightly frosts, 5
Brings back the snow.

MARY HOWITT

ENGLAND, 1804-1888

The Voice of Spring

I am coming, I am coming!