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

Ca n'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.