Change is a measure of time and, in the autumn, time seems speeded up. What was is not and never read more

Change is a measure of time and, in the autumn, time seems speeded up. What was is not and never again will be; what is is change.

January grey is here,
Like a sexton by her grave;
February bears the bier,
read more

January grey is here,
Like a sexton by her grave;
February bears the bier,
March with grief doth howl and rave,
And April weeps--but, O ye hours!
Follow with May's fairest flowers.

Autumn arrives in the early morning, but spring at the close of a winter day.

Autumn arrives in the early morning, but spring at the close of a winter day.

Long stormy spring-time, wet contentious April, winter chilling the lap of very May; but at length the season of summer read more

Long stormy spring-time, wet contentious April, winter chilling the lap of very May; but at length the season of summer does come

Spring is nature's way of saying, 'Let's party!'

Spring is nature's way of saying, 'Let's party!'

Indoors or out, no one relaxes in March, that month of wind and taxes, the wind will presently disappear, the read more

Indoors or out, no one relaxes in March, that month of wind and taxes, the wind will presently disappear, the taxes last us all the year.

A woodland in full color is awesome as a forest fire; but a single tree is like a dancing tongue read more

A woodland in full color is awesome as a forest fire; but a single tree is like a dancing tongue of flame to warm the heart.

And you would accept the seasons of your heart just as you have always accepted that seasons pass over your read more

And you would accept the seasons of your heart just as you have always accepted that seasons pass over your fields and you would watch with serenity through the winters of your grief.

Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee,
Whether the summer clothe the general earth
With greenness, read more

Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee,
Whether the summer clothe the general earth
With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch
Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch
Smokes in the sunthaw; whether the eve-drops fall,
Heard only in the trances of the blast,
Of if the secret ministry of frost
Shall hang them up in silent icicles,
Quietly shining to the quiet moon.