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FLEETLY hath passed the year. The seasons came Duly as they are wont—the gentle Spring, And the deliscious Summer, and the cool, Rich Autumn, with the nodding of the grain, And Winter, like and old and hoary man, Frosty and stiff—and are so chronicled, We have read gladness in the new green leaf, And in the first-blown violets; we have drunk Cool water from the rock, and in the shade Sunk to the noontide slumber;—we have pluck’d The mellow fruitage of the bending tree, And girded to our pleasant wanderings When the cool wind came freshly from the hills; And when the tinting of the Autumn leaves Had faded from its glory, we have sat By the good fires of Winter, and rejoiced Over the fulness of the gathered sheaf. ‘God hath been very good!’ ’Tis He whose hand Moulded the sunny hills, and hollow’d out The shelter of the valleys, and doth keep The fountains in their secret places cool; And it is he who leadeth up the sun, And ordereth the starry influences, And tempereth the keenness of the frost— And therefore, in the plenty of the feast, And in the lifting of the cup, let Him Have praises for the well-completed year. |