When I think of winter,
I think of driving snows,
Of whirling flakes, and dazzling drifts,
And every wind that blows.
I think of sparkling night-time
With all the starry crew;
I think of great Orion
On the midnight blue.
I think of chestnuts in the fire
Bursting and telling fates,
I think of sleigh-bells in the dark,
Of sleds, and skees, and skates.
When I think of springtime,
I think of rushing rains,
Of grass that springs to meet the sun
In all the country lanes;
Of venturous dandelions
Glowing with friendly gold,
Of willow-trees that on the wind
Their yellow fringe unfold.
I think of apple-blossoms—
As if the world had wings!—
And gardens that T mean to make
In the time of pleasant things.
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When I think of summer,
Comes sweetness on the air,
With roses, roses, roses,
Blowing everywhere!
I think of ringing scythes; of sails—
The outbound fishing fleet;
The rhythmic sound of distant oars
That in the rowlocks beat:
Of thrushes singing in the shade
O’er swimming-pools, and all
The strawberries in the mowing-field,
The peaches on the wall.
When I think of autumn,
I think of scarlet heaps
Of apples underneath the trees
Where the gray squirrel leaps:
Of towering woodsides’ crimson glow—
Bare boughs against the sky
In lacy lines: of wings that sweep
Southward, with trumpet cry—
The wild-geese clanging from the north:
Of Indian summer days,
And of the first fire on the hearth:—
And warm me in its blaze.
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Harriet Prescott Spofford.
