The Seasons

Fall is no man's travelling time;
Tasks are heavy; husbandmen
Heed the low light, lingering less.
Lightly their young drop from the deer,
Dandled in the faded fern;
Fiercely the stag stalks from the hill,
Hearing the herd in clamorous call;
Cobbled the mast in windless woods,
Weary the corn upon its canes,
    Colouring the brown earth.
Endless the thorns that foul the fence
Which frames the hollow of some house;
The hard dry ground is filled with fruit,
And by the fort, hard from their height
    Hazelnuts break and fall.

The dark days of the winter world
Waken the tides that boom and break
    The beaches of the earth;
Ill fare the birds of park and plain;
Pleased are the ravens breathing blood
    At black winter’s wail.
Winter, sooty dark and damp
The dogs appals who champ and chew,
Upon its chain the stewpot steams
    All the stern dark day.
Spring is icy-crisp and cold,
Keen the draught through every door,
Ducks on the lake lament their lot,
    Loud is the sad crane’s cry.
Crafty wolves creep from dark dens,
Drowsy birds wake rustling reeds,
And rouse the beasts they flee before
    Who from the fresh grass spring.

Warm summer is the traveller's time,
The tall trees hush, nor turn nor twist
    At any touch of wind
In woods new laden with their leaves.
And lower still the rivulets run.
    Even the rich grass is warm.

Source: Frank O'Connor; The Little Monasteries; Dublin; Dolmen
Press; 1963, 1976 (1976 ed.); pp.9-10