THE TWO SEASONS.

Summer, on himself intent,

Passed without, for nothing caring

Save his own high festival.

My windows, blind and winkless staring,

Wondered what the pageant meant,

Nor ever understood at all.

And oh, the pains of sentiment!

The loneliness beyond all bearing...

Mucus and spleen and gall!

But now that grey November peers

In at my fire-bright window pane?

And all its misty spires and trees

Loom in upon me through the rain

And question of the light that cheers

The room within — now my soul sees

Life, where of old were sepulchres;

And in these new-found sympathies

Sinks petty hopes and loves and fears,

And knows that life is not in vain.