_ED._ The moon that mounts the sun’s deserted way, Turns the long winter night to a silver day; But setteth golden in face of the solemn sight Of her lord arising upon a world of white. FEBRUARY _BA._ I have in my heart a vision of spring begun In a sheltering wood, that feels the kiss of the sun: And a thrush adoreth the melting day that dies In clouds of purple afloat upon saffron skies. MARCH _ED._ Now carol the birds at dawn, and some new lay Announceth a homecome voyager every-day. Beneath the tufted sallows the streamlet thrills With the leaping trout and the gleam of the daffodils. APRIL _BA._ Then laugheth the year; with flowers the meads are bright; The bursting branches are tipped with flames of light: The landscape is light; the dark clouds flee above, And the shades of the land are a blue that is deep as love. MAY _ED._ But if you have seen a village all red and old In cherry-orchards a-sprinkle with white and gold, By a hawthorn seated, or a witchelm flowering high, A gay breeze making riot in the waving rye! JUNE _BA._ Then night retires from heaven; the high winds go A-sailing in cloud-pavilions of cavern’d snow. O June, sweet Philomel sang thy cradle-lay; In rosy revel thy spirit shall pass away. JULY _ED._ Heavy is the green of the fields, heavy the trees With foliage hang, drowsy the hum of bees In the thundrous air: the crowded scents lie low: Thro’ tangle of weeds the river runneth slow. AUGUST _BA._ A reaper with dusty shoon and hat of straw On the yellow field, his scythe in his armës braw: Beneath the tall grey trees resting at noon From sweat and swink with scythe and dusty shoon. SEPTEMBER _ED._ Earth’s flaunting flower of passion fadeth fair To ripening fruit in sunlit veils of the air, As the art of man makes wisdom to glorify The beauty and love of life born else to die. OCTOBER _BA._ On frosty morns with the woods aflame, down, down The golden spoils fall thick from the chestnut crown. May Autumn in tranquil glory her riches spend, With mellow apples her orchard-branches bend. NOVEMBER _ED._ Sad mists have hid the sun, the land is forlorn: The plough is afield, the hunter windeth his horn. Dame Prudence looketh well to her winter stores, And many a wise man finds his pleasure indoors. DECEMBER _BA._ I pray thee don thy jerkin of olden time, Bring us good ice, and silver the trees with rime; And I will good cheer, good music and wine bestow, When the Christmas guest comes galoping over the snow.