Green ripples singing down the corn, With blossoms dumb the path I tread, And in the music of the morn One with wild roses on her head.

Now the green ripples turn to gold And all the paths are loud with rain, I with desire am growing old

And full of winter pain.

Every season hath its pleasures: Spring may boast her flowery prime. Yet the vineyard's ruby treasures Brighten Autumn's soberer time.

So Life's year begins and closes: Days...