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The Four Seasons Of The Year.

by Anne Bradstreet

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)

And now makes glad the darkned nothern wights

Who for some months have seen but starry lights.

Now goes the Plow-man to his merry toyle,

He might unloose his winter locked soyl;

The Seeds-man too, doth lavish out his grain,

In hope the more he casts, the more to gain:

The Gardner now superfluous branches lops,

And poles erects for his young clambring hops.

Now digs then sowes his herbs, his flowers & roots

And carefully manures his trees of fruits.

The Pleiades their influence now give,

And all that seemed as dead afresh doth live.

The croaking frogs, whom nipping winter kil'd

Like birds now chirp, and hop about the field,

The Nightingale, the black-bird and the Thrush

Now tune their layes, on sprayes of every bush.

The wanton frisking Kid, and soft-fleec'd Lambs

Do jump and play before their feeding Dams,

The tender tops of budding grass they crop,

They joy in what they have, but more in hope:

For though the frost hath lost his binding power,

Yet many a fleece of snow and stormy shower

Doth darken Sol's bright eye, makes us remember

The pinching North-west wind of cold December.

My second moneth is April, green and fair,

Of longer dayes, and a more temperate Air:

The Sun in Taurus keeps his residence,

And with his warmer beams glanceth from thence

This is the month whose fruitful showers produces

All set and sown for all delights and uses:

The Pear, the Plum, and Apple-tree now flourish

The grass grows long, the hungry beast to nourish.

The Primrose pale, and azure violet

Among the virduous grass hath nature set,

That when the Sun on's Love (the earth) doth shine

These might as lace set out her garments fine.

The fearfull bird his little house now builds

In trees and walls, in Cities and in fields.

The outside strong, the inside warm and neat;

A natural Artificer compleat.

The clocking hen her chirping chickins leads

With wings & beak defends them from the gleads

My next and last is fruitfull pleasant May,

Wherein the earth is clad in rich array,

The Sun now enters loving Gemini,

And heats us with the glances of his eye,

Our thicker rayment makes us lay aside

Lest by his fervor we be torrifi'd.

All flowers the Sun now with his beams discloses,

Except the double pinks and matchless Roses.

Now swarms the busy, witty, honey-Bee,

Whose praise deserves a page from more then me

The cleanly Huswife's Dary's now in th' prime,

Her shelves and firkins fill'd for winter time.

The meads with Cowslips, Honey-suckles dight,

One hangs his head, the other stands upright:

But both rejoyce at th' heaven's clear smiling face,

More at her showers, which water them a space.

For fruits my Season yields the early Cherry,

The hasty Peas, and wholsome cool Strawberry.

More solid fruits require a longer time,

Each Season hath his fruit, so hath each Clime:

Each man his own peculiar excellence,

But none in all that hath preheminence.

Sweet fragrant Spring, with thy short pittance fly

Let some describe thee better then can I.

Yet above all this priviledg is thine,

Thy dayes still lengthen without least decline.

Summer.

When Spring had done, the Summer did begin,

With melted tauny face, and garments thin,

Resembling Fire, Choler, and Middle age,

As Spring did Air, Blood, Youth in's equipage.

Wiping the sweat from of her face that ran,

With hair all wet she puffing thus began;

Bright June, July and August hot are mine,

In th' first Sol doth in crabbed Cancer shine.

His progress to the North now's fully done,

Then retrograde must be my burning Sun,

Who to his Southward Tropick still is bent,

Yet doth his parching heat but more augment

Though he decline, because his flames so fair,

Have throughly dry'd the earth, and heat the air.

Like as an Oven that long time hath been heat,

Whose vehemency at length doth grow so great,

That if you do withdraw her burning store,

Tis for a time as fervent as before.

Now go those frolick Swains, the Shepherd Lads

To wash the thick cloth'd flocks with pipes full glad

In the cool streams they labour with delight

Rubbing their dirty coats till they look white:

Whose fleece when finely spun and deeply dy'd

With Robes thereof Kings have been dignified.

Blest rustick Swains, your pleasant quiet life,

Hath envy bred in Kings that were at strife,

Careless of worldly wealth you sing and pipe,

Whilst they'r imbroyl'd in wars & troubles rife:

Which made great Bajazet cry out in's woes,

Oh happy shepherd which hath not to lose.

Orthobulus, nor yet Sebastia great,

But whist'leth to thy flock in cold and heat.

Viewing the Sun by day, the Moon by night

Endimions, Dianaes dear delight,

Upon the grass resting your healthy limbs,

By purling Brooks looking how fishes swims,

If pride within your lowly Cells ere haunt,

Of him that was Shepherd then King go vaunt.

This moneth the Roses are distil'd in glasses,

Whose fragrant smel all made perfumes surpasses

The Cherry, Gooseberry are now In th' prime,

And for all sorts of Pease, this is the time.

July my next, the hott'st in all the year,

The sun through Leo now takes his Career,

Whose flaming breath doth melt us from afar,

Increased by the star Canicular.

This month from Julius C'sar took its name,

By Romans celebrated to his fame.

Now go the Mowers to their flashing toyle,

The Meadowes of their riches to dispoyle,

With weary strokes, they take all in their way,

Bearing the burning heat of the long day.

The forks and Rakes do follow them amain,

Which makes the aged fields look young again.

The groaning Carts do bear away this prize,

To Stacks and Barns where it for Fodder lyes.

My next and last is August fiery hot

(For'much, the Southward Sun abateth not)

This Moneth he keeps with Virgo for a space,

The dryed Earth is parched with his face.

August of great Augustus took its name,

Romes second Emperour of lasting fame,

With sickles now the bending Reapers goe

The rustling tress of terra down to mowe;

And bundles up in sheaves, the weighty wheat,

Which after Manchet makes for Kings to eat:

The Barly, Rye and Pease should first had place,

Although their bread have not so white a face.

The Carter leads all home with whistling voyce.

He plow'd with pain, but reaping doth rejoyce.

His sweat, his toyle, his careful wakeful nights,

His fruitful Crop abundantly requites.

Now's ripe the Pear, Pear-plumb and Apricock,

The prince of plumbs, whose stone's as hard as Rock

The Summer seems but short, the Autumn hasts

To shake his fruits, of most delicious tasts

Like good old Age, whose younger juicy Roots

Hath still ascended, to bear goodly fruits.

Until his head be gray, and strength be gone.

Yet then appears the worthy deeds he'th done:

To feed his boughs exhausted hath his sap,

Then drops his fruits into the eaters lap.

Autumn.

Of Autumn moneths September is the prime,

Now day and night are equal in each Clime,

The twelfth of this Sol riseth in the Line,

And doth in poizing Libra this month shine.

The vintage now is ripe, the grapes are prest,

Whose lively liquor oft is curs'd and blest:

For nought so good, but it may be abused,

But its a precious juice when well its used.

The raisins now in clusters dryed be,

The Orange, Lemon dangle on the tree:

The Pomegranate, the Fig are ripe also,

And Apples now their yellow sides do show.

Of Almonds, Quinces, Wardens, and of Peach,

The season's now at hand of all and each,

Sure at this time, time first of all began,

And in this moneth was made apostate Man:

For then in Eden was not only seen,

Boughs full of leaves, or fruits unripe or green:

Or withered stocks, which were all dry and dead,

But trees with goodly fruits replenished;

Which shows nor Summer Winter nor the Spring

Our Grand-Sire was of Paradice made King:

Nor could that temp'rate Clime such difference make,

If scited as the most Judicious take.

October is my next, we hear in this

The Northern winter-blasts begin to hiss,

In Scorpio resideth now the Sun,

And his declining heat is almost done.

The fruitless Trees all withered now do stand,

Whose sapless yellow leavs by winds are fan'd,

Which notes when youth and strength have past their prime

Decrepit age must also have its time.

The Sap doth slily creep towards the Earth

There rests, until the Sun give it a birth.

So doth old Age still tend unto his grave,

Where also he his winter time must have;

But when the Sun of righteousness draws nigh,

His dead old stock, shall mount again on high.

November is my last, for Time doth haste,

We now of winters sharpness 'gins to tast.

This moneth the Sun's in Sagitarius,

So farre remote, his glances warm not us.

Almost at shortest is the shorten'd day,

The Northern pole beholdeth not one ray,

Nor Greenland, Groanland, Finland, Lapland, see

No Sun, to lighten their obscurity;

Poor wretches that in total darkness lye,

With minds more dark then is the dark'ned Sky.

Beaf, Brawn, and Pork are now in great request,

And solid meats our stomacks can digest.

This time warm cloaths, full diet and good fires,

Our pinched flesh, and hungry mawes requires;

Old, cold, dry Age, and Earth Autumn resembles,

And Melancholy which most of all dissembles.

I must be short, and shorts, the short'ned day,

What winter hath to tell, now let him say.

Winter.

Cold, moist, young flegmy winter now doth lye

In swadling Clouts, like new born Infancy

Bound up with frosts, and furr'd with hail & snows,

And like an Infant, still it taller grows;

December is my first, and now the Sun

To th' Southward Tropick his swift race doth run:

This moneth he's hous'd in horned Capricorn,

From thence he 'gins to length the shortned morn,

Through Christendome with great Feastivity,

Now's held, (but ghest) for blest Nativity,

Cold frozen January next comes in,

Chilling the blood and shrinking up the skin;

In Aquarius now keeps the long wisht Sun,

And Northward his unwearied Course doth run:

The day much longer then it was before,

The cold not lessened, but augmented more.

Now Toes and Ears, and Fingers often freeze,

And Travellers their noses sometimes leese.

Moist snowie February is my last,

I care not how the winter time doth haste,

In Pisces now the golden Sun doth shine,

And Northward still approaches to the Line,

The Rivers 'gin to ope, the snows to melt,

And some warm glances from his face are felt;

Which is increased by the lengthen'd day,

Until by's heat, he drive all cold away,

And thus the year in Circle runneth round:

Where first it did begin, in th' end its found.

My Subjects bare, my Brain is bad,

Or better Lines you should have had;

The first fell in so nat'rally,

I knew not how to pass it by;

The last, though bad, I could not mend,

Accept therefore of what is pen'd,

And all the faults that you shall spy

Shall at your feet for pardon cry