The Change

The Change written by William Henry Davies

Nature Poems (1908)

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Now Winter's here; he and his ghostly Winds
That day and night swing on the branches bare.
There's February, with his weak, running eyes,
And dog-like nose, that's always damp and cold.
November, who doth make Heaven like one cloud;
And, if he shines at all, his sunsets are
A ghastly white; no sound of birds - save, now
And then, a pheasant hiccups like a child.
There's cold December too; he takes the Brook,
And lodges him in a strong tomb of ice -
The last sweet voice that Nature charms us with.
I cannot help but think of Autumn now,
Ere any leaves begin to fall, and when
He made the dark and sullen forest smile,
And gave the trees gold tresses for their dark;
And was, as I have heard, so generous
That men could feed their pigs on his rich fruit.
And I go farther back : how Spring did clothe
The aged Oak - whose four tremendous arms
Might well be bodies of still noble trees.
And how Spring's sparkling meadows stormed the Clouds
With little black balls that went singing up;
And how rain-arrows struck the earth so hard,
Giving no wound to little Leaves and Buds,
But only tickling them to laugh and dance.
And I think too of Summer in her prime -
The tidal wave of Summer's yellow fields;
And her gold tresses, cut and loose on earth,
With merry men and women there all day
Laughing and combing them; when Swallows made
Bewildering dives of forty feet and more;
And Winds sang only loud enough in trees
To give Love confidence for whispering.
And now the world's so bare and cold by day:
It seems but yesterday I welcomed Night
That she hung out her silver orb so cool,
In place of Day's red danger-lamp, which forced
Me into shade all day.

This work is in the public domain in countries where the copyright term is the author's life plus 70 years or less.