The Masque Of The Months.

(For A Fresco.)


Firstly thou, churl son of Janus,
Rough for cold, in drugget clad,
Com'st with rack and rheum to pain us;--
Firstly thou, churl son of Janus.
Caverned now is old Sylvanus;
Numb and chill are maid and lad.

After thee thy dripping brother,
Dank his weeds around him cling;
Fogs his footsteps swathe and smother,--
After thee thy dripping brother.
Hearth-set couples hush each other,
Listening for the cry of Spring.

Hark! for March thereto doth follow,
Blithe,--a herald tabarded;
O'er him flies the shifting swallow,--
Hark! for March thereto doth follow.
Swift his horn, by holt and hollow,
Wakes the flowers in winter dead.

Thou then, April, Iris' daughter,
Born between the storm and sun;
Coy as nymph ere Pan hath caught her,--
Thou then, April, Iris' daughter.
Now are light, and rustling water;
Now are mirth, and nests begun.

May the jocund cometh after,
Month of all the Loves (and mine);
Month of mock and cuckoo-laughter,--
May the jocund cometh after.
Beaks are gay on roof and rafter;
Luckless lovers peak and pine.

June the next, with roses scented,
Languid from a slumber-spell;
June in shade of leafage tented;--
June the next, with roses scented.
Now her Itys, still lamented,
Sings the mournful Philomel.

Hot July thereafter rages,
Dog-star smitten, wild with heat;
Fierce as pard the hunter cages,--
Hot July thereafter rages.
Traffic now no more engages;
Tongues are still in stall and street.

August next, with cider mellow,
Laughs from out the poppied corn;
Hook at back, a lusty fellow,--
August next, with cider mellow.
Now in wains the sheafage yellow
'Twixt the hedges slow is borne.

Laden deep with fruity cluster,
Then September, ripe and hale;
Bees about his basket fluster,--
Laden deep with fruity cluster.
Skies have now a softer lustre;
Barns resound to flap of flail.

Thou then, too, of woodlands lover,
Dusk October, berry-stained;
Wailed about of parting plover,--
Thou then, too, of woodlands lover.
Fading now are copse and cover;
Forests now are sere and waned.

Next November, limping, battered,
Blinded in a whirl of leaf;
Worn of want and travel-tattered,--
Next November, limping, battered.
Now the goodly ships are shattered,
Far at sea, on rock and reef.

Last of all the shrunk December
Cowled for age, in ashen gray;
Fading like a fading ember,--
Last of all the shrunk December.
Him regarding, men remember
Life and joy must pass away.

Henry Austin Dobson

Henry Austin Dobson, commonly known as Austin Dobson, was an English poet and essayist. A civil servant by profession, Dobson was one of the most renowned poets and literary critics of the late Victorian and Edwardian periods. His work is noted for its delicate craftsmanship and profound interest in 18th-century literature. Dobson's poetry often revisited and celebrated historical themes and characters, blending scholarly interest with lyrical form.

Henry Austin Dobson

A Broken Sword.

Henry Austin Dobson, Simple Poetry

A Tale Of Polypheme.

Henry Austin Dobson, Simple Poetry

The Screen In The Lumber Room.

Henry Austin Dobson, Simple Poetry

Incognita.

Henry Austin Dobson, Simple Poetry

English

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June

Long, long ago, it seems, this summer morn
That pale-browed April passed with pensive tread
Through the frore woods, and from its frost-bound bed
Woke the arbutus with her silver horn;
And now May, too, is fled,
The flower-crowned month, the merry laughing May,
With rosy feet and fingers dewy wet,
Leaving the woods and all cool gardens gay
With tulips and the scented violet.

Gone are the wind-flower and the adder-tongue
And the sad drooping bellwort, and no more
The snowy trilliums crowd the forest's floor;
The purpling grasses are no longer young,
And summer's wide-set door
O'er the thronged hills and the broad panting earth
Lets in the torrent of the later bloom,
Haytime, and harvest, and the after mirth,
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The Four Seasons Of The Year.

Spring.

Another four I've left yet to bring on,
Of four times four the last Quarternion
The Winter, Summer, Autumn & the Spring,
In season all these Seasons I shall bring:
Sweet Spring like man in his Minority,
At present claim'd, and had priority.
With smiling face and garments somewhat green,
She trim'd her locks, which late had frosted been,
Nor hot nor cold, she spake, but with a breath,
Fit to revive, the nummed earth from death.
Three months (quoth she) are 'lotted to my share
March, April, May of all the rest most fair.
Tenth of the first, Sol into Aries enters,
And bids defiance to all tedious winters,
Crosseth the Line, and equals night and day,
(Stil adds to th' last til after pleasant May)
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Anne Bradstreet

September, 1819

Departing summer hath assumed
An aspect tenderly illumed,
The gentlest look of spring;
That calls from yonder leafy shade
Unfaded, yet prepared to fade,
A timely carolling.
No faint and hesitating trill,
Such tribute as to winter chill
The lonely redbreast pays!
Clear, loud, and lively is the din,
From social warblers gathering in
Their harvest of sweet lays.

Nor doth the example fail to cheer
Me, conscious that my leaf is sere,
And yellow on the bough:-
Fall, rosy garlands, from my head!
Ye myrtle wreaths, your fragrance shed
Around a younger brow!

Yet will I temperately rejoice;
Wide is the range, and free the choice
Of undiscordant themes;
Which, haply, kindred souls may prize
Not less than vernal ecstasies,
An...

William Wordsworth

Upon The Same Occasion (September 1819)

Departing summer hath assumed
An aspect tenderly illumed,
The gentlest look of spring;
That calls from yonder leafy shade
Unfaded, yet prepared to fade,
A timely caroling.

No faint and hesitating trill,
Such tribute as to winter chill
The lonely redbreast pays!
Clear, loud, and lively is the din,
From social warblers gathering in
Their harvest of sweet lays.

Nor doth the example fail to cheer
Me, conscious that my leaf is sere,
And yellow on the bough:
Fall, rosy garlands, from my head!
Ye myrtle wreaths, your fragrance shed
Around a younger brow!

Yet will I temperately rejoice;
Wide is the range, and free the choice
Of undiscordant themes;
Which, haply, kindred souls may prize
Not less than vernal ecstasies,

William Wordsworth

The Austral Months

January

The first fair month! In singing Summers sphere
She glows, the eldest daughter of the year.
All light, all warmth, all passion, breaths of myrrh,
And subtle hints of rose-lands, come with her.
She is the warm, live month of lustre she
Makes glad the land and lulls the strong, sad sea.
The highest hope comes with her. In her face
Of pure, clear colour lives exalted grace;
Her speech is beauty, and her radiant eyes
Are eloquent with splendid prophecies.



February

The bright-haired, blue-eyed last of Summer. Lo,
Her clear song lives in all the winds that blow;
The upland torrent and the lowland rill,
The stream of valley and the spring of hill,
The pools that slumber and the brooks that run
Where dense the leaves are, gr...

Henry Kendall

The Poet's Calendar

JANUARY

Janus am I; oldest of potentates;
    Forward I look, and backward, and below
I count, as god of avenues and gates,
    The years that through my portals come and go.
I block the roads, and drift the fields with snow;
I chase the wild-fowl from the frozen fen;
My frosts congeal the rivers in their flow,
My fires light up the hearths and hearts of men.


FEBRUARY

I am lustration, and the sea is mine.
    I wash the sands and headlands with my tide;
My brow is crowned with branches of the pine;
    Before my chariot-wheels the fishes glide.
By me all things unclean are purified,
    By me the souls of men washed white again;
E'en the unlovely tombs of those who died
    Without a dirge, I cleanse from every stain.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow