To The Seasons

A sonnet on the seasons.

Season of mellow warmth now passes by
The midday point, the gold heat does not hold.
And blissful summer indolence does die,
pure air now hissing with mists and cold.
Idle animals wander ignorant,
The reaper gleans roughly the stubble plains,
With red fruit from the tree and corn pregnant,
The stocked granary, filled with death, remains.
The dying day cries the first winter snow,
The bare brooks and bourns do suffer trembling,
Once lushly filled with trees- now a plateau,
Through the icy blitz life was stumbling.
But harken through the blizzard- it does ring-
The sounds of pink and white blossoms do spring.