Come Not the Seasons Here by E. J. Pratt
Comes not the springtime here, Though the snowdrop came, The time of cowslip’s near
For a yellow flame
Was spied in tufts of green; And joyous sound
Rang out to tell us that
A cuckoo’s egg was found.
Comes not the summer here, Though the cowslip’s gone, Though wild rose blow as the year Draws faithfully on;
Though the face of the poppy’s red In the morning light,
And where the locust shed
All the ground is white.
Comes not the autumn here, Though a herdsman said He found a leaf in the sere By an aster dead;
And knew the summer’s done
For we heard him cry
That his pastures were brown in the sun, And his wells were dry.
Nor shall the winter come, Though the elm be bare, And ev’ry voice be dumb On the frozen air;
But the flap of waterfowl
In the marsh alone,
Or the hoot of an owl on a glacial stone.