Poem by 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,

Less fair than when a lenient sky

Brings on her parting hour.

When earth repays with golden sheaves

The labours of the plough,

And ripening fruits and forest leaves

All brighten on the bough;

What pensive beauty autumn shows,

Before she hears the sound

Of winter rushing in, to close

The emblematic round!

Such be our Spring, our Summer such;

So may our Autumn blend

With hoary Winter, and Life touch,

Through heaven-born hope, her end!

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