Sonnet CXCIV:
Three seasons only in his calendar
My love has counted. First came opening spring,
When love put forth, a weak and timid thing,
Shy of the cowslip’s nod, or violet’s stir.
Then summer caught him with the rush and whir
Of many wings; and proudly caroling,
He brushed the lilies, made the roses swing,
And trod the land a smiling conqueror.
With autumn’s fruitage ripened at his feet,
He pauses now. Is this the end of all—
The consummation, boundless and complete?
Or shall the starving raven sound his call
Through days to come, when every leaf shall fall,
And dismal winter’s snows and tempest beat?
