Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farm-house at the garden's end.

From The Snow-Storm
by Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803–1882)

And I told you the snow would melt, love,
In the passionate glance o' the sun;
And the leaves o' the trees, and the flowers and bees,
Would come back again, one by one.
That the great, gray clouds would vanish,
And the sky turn tender and blue;
And the sweet birds would sing, and talk of the spring
And, love, it has all come true.

From I Told You
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox (1850–1919)

March (1)

Smooth to the shelving brink a copius flood

Rolls fair, and placid; where collected all,

In one impetuous torrent, down the steep

It thundering shoots, and shakes the country round.

From The Waterfall

by James Thomson (1700 – 1748)

The woods and banks of England now,

Late coppered with dead leaves and old,

Have made the early violets grow,

And bulge with knots of primrose gold.

From The Woods and Banks

by William Henry Davies (1871 – 1940)

April

 

 

What is this life if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare?

No time to stand beneath the boughs

And stare as long as sheep or cows...

A poor life this if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare.

From Leisure

by William Henry Davies (1871 – 1940)

 

May (2)

 

 

What is so sweet and dear

As a prosperous morn in May,

The confident prime of the day,

And dauntless youth of the year...

From Ode in May

by Sir William Watson (1858 - 1935)

May (1)

 

 

In the bluebell forest

There is scarce a sound,

Only bluebells growing

Everywhere around.

From Bluebells

by O. Enoch

It was a bright and cheerful afternoon,

Towards the end of the sunny month of June,

When the north wind congregates in crowds

The floating mountains of the silver clouds

From the horizon – and the stainless sky

Opens beyond them like eternity.

June (2)

 

 

It’s Midsummer Day,

And they’re making the hay

Down in the meadow all golden and gay,

They’re tossing it high

Beneath the June sky,

And the hay rakes are spreading it out to dry.

From Haytime

by Irene F Pawsey

	 
 	If you would like to see more seasonal views of Lavendon for the months of July - December click here