A Year's Windfalls

On the wind of January
    Down flits the snow,
Travelling from the frozen North
    As cold as it can blow.
Poor robin redbreast,
    Look where he comes;
Let him in to feel your fire,
    And toss him of your crumbs.

On the wind in February
    Snowflakes float still,
Half inclined to turn to rain,
    Nipping, dripping, chill.
Then the thaws swell the streams,
    And swollen rivers swell the sea: -
If the winter ever ends
    How pleasant it will be!

In the wind of windy March
    The catkins drop down,
Curly, caterpillar-like,
    Curious green and brown.
With concourse of nest-building birds
    And leaf-buds by the way,
We begin to think of flowers
    And life and nuts some day.

With the gusts of April
    Rich fruit-tree blossoms fall,
On the hedged-in orchard-green,
    From the southern wall.
Apple-trees and pear-trees
    Shed petals white or pink,
Plum-trees and peach-trees;
    While sharp showers sink and sink.

Little brings the May breeze
    Beside pure scent of flowers,
While all things wax and nothing wanes
    In lengthening daylight hours.
Across the hyacinth beds
    The wind lags warm and sweet,
Across the hawthorn tops,
    Across the blades of wheat.

In the wind of sunny June
    Thrives the red rose crop,
Every day fresh blossoms blow
    While the first leaves drop;
White rose and yellow rose
    And moss-rose choice to find,
And the cottage cabbage-rose
    Not one whit behind.

On the blast of scorched July
    Drives the pelting hail,
From thunderous lightning-clouds, that blot
    Blue heaven grown lurid-pale.
Weedy waves are tossed ashore,
    Sea-things strange to sight
Gasp upon the barren shore
    And fade away in light.

In the parching August wind
    Corn-fields bow the head,
Sheltered in round valley depths,
    On low hills outspread.
Early leaves drop loitering down
    Weightless on the breeze,
First fruits of the year's decay
    From the withering trees.

In brisk wind of September
    The heavy-headed fruits
Shake upon their bending boughs
    And drop from the shoots;
Some glow golden in the sun,
    Some show green and streaked,
Some set forth a purple bloom,
    Some blush rosy-cheeked.

In strong blast of October
    At the equinox,
Stirred up in his hollow bed
    Broad ocean rocks;
Plunge the ships on his bosom,
    Leaps and plunges the foam, -
It's oh! for mothers' sons at sea,
    That they were safe at home.

In slack wind of November
    The fog forms and shifts;
All the world comes out again
    When the fog lifts.
Loosened from their sapless twigs
    Leaves drop with every gust;
Drifting, rustling, out of sight
    In the damp or dust.

Last of all, December,
    The year's sands nearly run,
Speeds on the shortest day,
    Curtails the sun;
With its bleak raw wind
    Lays the last leaves low,
Brings back the nightly frosts,
    Brings back the snow.