A Year's Windfalls

On the wind of January         Down flits the snow,     Travelling from the frozen North         As cold as it can blow.     Poor robin redbreast,         Look where he comes;     Let him in to feel your fire,         And toss him of your crumbs.     On the wind in February         Snowflakes float still,     Half inclined to turn to rain,         Nipping, dripping, chill.     Then the thaws swell the streams,         And swollen rivers swell the sea: -     If the winter ever ends         How pleasant it will be!     In the wind of windy March         The catkins drop down,     Curly, caterpillar-like,         Curious green and brown.     With concourse of nest-building birds         And leaf-buds by the way,     We begin to think of flowers         And life and nuts some day.     With the gusts of April         Rich fruit-tree blossoms fall,     On the hedged-in orchard-green,         From the southern wall.     Apple-trees and pear-trees         Shed petals white or pink,     Plum-trees and peach-trees;         While sharp showers sink and sink.     Little brings the May breeze         Beside pure scent of flowers,     While all things wax and nothing wanes         In lengthening daylight hours.     Across the hyacinth beds         The wind lags warm and sweet,     Across the hawthorn tops,         Across the blades of wheat.     In the wind of sunny June         Thrives the red rose crop,     Every day fresh blossoms blow         While the first leaves drop;     White rose and yellow rose         And moss-rose choice to find,     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,         Sea-things strange to sight     Gasp upon the barren shore         And fade away in light.     In the parching August wind         Corn-fields bow the head,     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         From the withering trees.     In brisk wind of September         The heavy-headed fruits     Shake upon their bending boughs         And drop from the shoots;     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         At the equinox,     Stirred up in his hollow bed         Broad ocean rocks;     Plunge the ships on his bosom,         Leaps and plunges the foam, -     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         When the fog lifts.     Loosened from their sapless twigs         Leaves drop with every gust;     Drifting, rustling, out of sight         In the damp or dust.     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,         Brings back the snow.