What's In A Name?

Why has Spring one syllable less     Than any its fellow season?     There may be some other reason,     And I'm merely making a guess;     But surely it hoards such wealth     Of happiness, hope and health,     Sunshine and musical sound,     It may spare a foot from its name     Yet all the same     Superabound.     Soft-named Summer,     Most welcome comer,     Brings almost everything     Over which we dream or sing     Or sigh;     But then Summer wends its way,     To-morrow, - to-day, -     Good-bye!     Autumn, - the slow name lingers,     While we likewise flag;     It silences many singers;     Its slow days drag,     Yet hasten at speed     To leave us in chilly need     For Winter to strip indeed.     In all-lack Winter,     Dull of sense and of sound,     We huddle and shiver     Beside our splinter     Of crackling pine,     Snow in sky and snow on ground.     Winter and cold     Can't last for ever!     To-day, to-morrow, the sun will shine;     When we are old,     But some still are young,     Singing the song     Which others have sung,     Ringing the bells     Which others have rung, -     Even so!     We ourselves, who else?     We ourselves long     Long ago.