Now 'tis the Springtime, dear, And crocus-cups hold flame, Brimmed to the pregnant year, All bashful as with shame, Who blushes as with shame. Now 'tis the Springtime, dear, And crocus-cups hold flame. III Soon Summer will be queen, At her brown throat one rose, And poppy-pod, and bean, Will rustle as she goes, As down the garth she goes. Soon Summer will be queen, At her brown throat one rose. IV Then Autumn come, a prince, A gipsy crowned with gold; Gold weight the fruited quince, Gold strew the leafy wold, The wild and wind-swept wold. Then Autumn come, a prince, A gipsy crowned with gold. V Then Winter will be king, Snow-driven from feet to head; No song-birds then will sing, The winds will wail instead, The wild winds weep instead. Then Winter will be king, Snow-driven from feet to head. VI Then shall I weep, who smiled, And curse the coming years, You and myself, and child, Born unto shame and tears, A mother's shame and tears. Then shall I weep, who smiled, And curse the coming years. TYRANNY What is there now more merciless Than such fast lips that will not speak; That stir not if one curse or bless A God who made them weak? More maddening to one there is naught Than such white eyelids sealed on eyes, Eyes vacant of the thing named thought, An exile in the skies. Ah, silent tongue! ah, dull, closed ear! What angel utterances low Have wooed you? so you may not hear Our mortal words of woe! WHAT YOU WILL I When the season was dry and the sun was hot, And the hornet sucked, gaunt on the apricot, And the ripe peach dropped, to its seed a-rot, With a lean, red wasp that stung and clung: When the hollyhocks, ranked in the garden plot, More seed-pods had than blossoms, I wot, Then all had been said and been sung, And meseemed that my heart had forgot. II When the black grape bulged with the juice that burst Through its thick blue skin that was cracked with thirst, And the round, ripe pippins, that summer had nursed, In the yellowing leaves o' the orchard hung: When the farmer, his lips with whistling pursed, To his sun-tanned brow in the corn was immersed, Then something was said or was sung, And I remembered as much as I durst. III Now the sky of December gray drips and drips, And eaves of the barn the icicle tips, And the cackling hen on the snow-path slips, And the cattle shiver the fields among: Now the ears of the milkmaid the north-wind nips, And the red-chapped cheeks of the farm-boy whips, What, what shall be said or be sung, With my lips pressed warm to your lips! MIDWINTER