Poet: Unknown
SPRING
With March comes in the pleasant spring,
When little birds begin to sing;
To build their nests, to hatch their brood.
With tender care provide them food.
SUMMER
And summer comes with verdant June;
The flowers then are in full bloom,
All nature smiles, the fields look gay;
The weather's fine to make the hay.
AUTUMN
September comes; the golden corn
By many busy hands is shorn;
Autumn's ripe fruits, an ample store,
Are gathered in for rich and poor.
WINTER
Winter's cold frost and northern blast —
This is the season that comes last
The snow has come, the sleigh-bells ring,
And merry boys rejoice and sing.
Poems about the seasons of the year:
Autumn Poems
Spring Poems
Summer Poems
Winter Poems
Poet Unknown
In summer, when the days were long,
We walked together in the wood:
Our heart was light, our steps were strong;
Sweet fluttering were there in our blood,
In summer, when the days were long.
We strayed from morn till evening came;
We gathered flowers, and wove us crowns;
We walked mid poppies red as flame,
Or sat upon the yellow downs;
And always wished our life the same.
In summer, when the days were long,
We leaped the hedge-row, crossed the brook;
And still her voice flowed forth in song,
Or else she read some graceful book,
In summer, when the days were long.
And then we sat beneath the trees,
With shadows lessening in the noon;
And in the sunlight and the breeze,
We feasted many a gorgeous June,
While larks were singing o'er the leas.
In summer, when the days were long,
On dainty chicken, snow-white bread,
We feasted, with no grace but song;
We plucked wild strawberries, ripe and red,
In summer, when the days were long.
We loved, and yet we knew it not,
For loving seemed like breathing then;
We found a heaven in every spot;
Saw angels, too, in all good men;
And dreamed of God in grove and grot.
In summer, when the days are long,
Alone I wander, muse alone.
I see her not; but that old song
Under the fragrant wind is blown,
In summer, when the days are long.
Alone I wander in the wood:
But one fair spirit hears my sighs;
And half I see, so glad and good,
The honest daylight of her eyes,
That charmed me under earlier skies.
In summer, when the days are long,
I love her as we loved of old.
My heart is light, my step is strong;
For love brings back those hours of gold,
In summer, when the days are long.
Poet: C. D. Barrett
Spring
I arose one morn, and from my door
Saw the world all dressed in green;
And I knew in her robe of emerald hue
Small amethysts could be seen.
'Twas like a dream of my childhood hours,
This happy growing-time,
That spoke the poetry of youth,
When life itself was rhyme.
Summer
I arose one morn, and beheld the hills
All clad in gorgeous robes
Of scarlet and saffron, of purple and gold,
And jewels of circles and globes.
'Twas like a dream of more joyful days,
When life seemed a vision rare,
And I thought no earthly blessedness
Could with my own compare.
Autumn
I arose one morn, and lo! the hills
Again had changed attire;
The mantle, brown, bore scarlet gems
In lustre most entire.
A vision 'twas of labor done,
Of tasks now at an end;
Ambitions, hopes, now realized,
Their joys or sorrows send.
Winter
I arose one morn, from my window looked,
And the world was white and still.
No lay of plumed songsters heard,
Of robin or whippoorwill;
But, oh! it was like a dream of peace,
This winding-sheet of white -
The still world told of a sweet repose,
The end of a stormy night.
God help us in our struggle here,
Give us to see the reasons
For all our cares; and wisdom grant
To gladly take life's seasons.
Poet: Catherine Pulsifer
Spring sees things come back alive
The flowers and the bees arrive.
Summer brings the warm air
We vacation and live without a care
Then the fall it starts to cool
And the children venture back to school
Winter comes with a blast
And we pray it is over fast!
The beauty that each season brings
Gives each of us a different feeling.
Poet: Mary C. Plummer
You promised you would come back again,
With your balmy air and beauty;
You promised to bring the dear little birds,
O, Spring, how well you attend your duty.
'Tis now I feel your near approach,
As I walk along life's pathway,
The chirping birds and fragrant flowers,
The swaying trees, and budding bowers.
The rippling brook and peeping grasses.
Romping boys, and laughing lasses,
Cupid, with her magic power.
Playing upon the hearts of men.
Sunbeams dancing in the places
Where the winter's frost has been;
Tells me, happy, joyous Springtime,
That you're gently coming in.
Poet Unknown
Too hot to crawl, too hot to creep,
Too hot to wake, too hot to sleep;
Too hot to stand, too hot to fall.
Too hot to laugh, too hot to bawl;
Too hot to ride, too hot to walk,
Too hot to whisper, or to talk;
Too hot to starve, too hot to eat,
My head's too hot— so lare my feet;
Too hot to kick about the heat,
Too hot for eggs, too hot for meat;
Too hot another line to sing —
Too blooming hot for anything!
by Harriet Louise Jerome
I am just a little snowflake,
Soft and white and fluttering,
Light enough to drift on breezes -
Just a whisper of a thing.
Beautiful as truth, and graceful
As a pure ennobling thought,
For, to Nature’s law obedient,
Perfect symmetry I sought.
Just a stainless, glistening snowflake,
Just a bit of God’s own love,
Caught and crystalized in whiteness,
Wafted from the heavens above.
Snow defines the winter season:
Poems About Snowflakes
Poems About Snowmen
Poet: John Franklin Bair
Blow March Wind, with your whistle and roar,
Your blustering days will soon be o'er ;
Blow your loud blasts throughout the long night,
Cover the ground with blankets of white.
Rattle the windows and slam the door,
Soon we will hear you whistle no more;
For Old Sol now is mounting the sky,
Spring birds are coming and April is nigh.
Pile the white snowdrifts high if you will,
Over each doorstep and on window sill;
Bite the tips of our fingers to day,
Doubtless, tomorrow you'll vanish away.
When the South Wind blows gently, you'll hide
Away to the North, we'll bid you goodbye,
And for eight months, or probably more,
We'll not feel your breath or hear your loud roar.
We do not hate you, old March Wind, O no!
We like you in Winter, but now you should go,
Farewell, and when the warm season is o'er,
We'll welcome again your whistle and roar.
The first four month of the winter season:
Month Poems
January Poems
February Poems
March Poems
April Poems
Poet: J. B. Selkirk
April comes through sun and gloom,
And tempts from winter's willing womb
The life that gladdens flower and tree,
The frisking lambs are on the lee,
And linnets in the budding broom.
All happy living things for whom
Our kindly mother-earth makes room,
Seem happier in their new-born glee
When April comes.
Alas! alas! its fairest bloom
Is poor and powerless to illume
The darkness which it brings to me;
Henceforth, in all my years to be,
I plant fresh flowers about a tomb
When April comes.
Poet: Greta Zwaan, 2002
I grieve, I lament, I sorrow in remorse of what has occurred;
Summer has left without fanfare, left without saying a word.
Was there no way to dissuade it? Was there no way to hang on?
Could we have extended its glory? Who said to summer, "Be gone?"
I never had time for exploring, to follow the brook to its end;
To watch the sunset at evening, to spend extra time with a friend.
The flowers I planted are wilting, there's danger of frost in the night;
The robins, the sparrows, the swallows have gone, they've all taken flight.
Summer gives two months of pleasure; winter, so long, such a trial.
Curtailed are the joys of warm sunshine, I cringe and go into denial!
I know there are winter fanatics, whose joy is to run their ski-doo;
Or race down a snow-covered hillside, as if skiing were something brand new.
But for me? I cringe in a snowstorm with ice underfoot everywhere,
I gingerly tread on the sidewalk, I move with the greatest of care.
I'm dressed head to toe in a snowsuit, a scarf that must cover my face,
My boots are encumbered with icers; they're safe, but they slow down my pace.
See what I mean by the torment? See why I miss summer so?
Please! Tell me how I can retrieve it? It's essential, I really must know.
Perhaps there's a period of waiting; if must be, I'll have to agree.
Just as long as it's not gone forever, and soon the spring dew I shall see.
Not knowing is what has me worried; as long as I know, it's okay.
I'll try to endure winter's dark days, if summer returns here some day.
The warmer months:
May Poems
June Poems
July Poems
August Poems
Poet: John Franklin Bair
From clouds o'erhead we gently fall,
To bring to earth a cover,
On meadows, hills and trees and roofs,
We spread white blankets over.
At ev'ning, first a few upon
Our downward journey started,
But ere midnight, ten million more
Had from the clouds departed.
Throughout the night, till morning dawn,
Upon the air we floated,
And when the dawn of day appeared,
O'er ev'rything we gloated.
Then up arose the fierce north wind,
And with a cruel laughter,
It blew us from our resting place,
And many miles chased after.
O'er hills and fields it carried us,
Then tossed us in a hollow,
Where we held fast and many more
Upon our track did follow.
Along there came a rumbling train
And swiftly plunged into us,
It whistled, puffed, but soon found out
It never could plow through us.
Next morning dawned quite warm and clear,
We saw Old Sol look cunning,
As if he meant to say to us,
I soon will set you running.
He then began to shed his heat,
Then we all took to crying,
He melted us to tears so fast,
Like lard in caldrons frying.
Before the day was done each flake
Had melted and departed,
To our surprise we found that we
Were back to where we started.
Poet: Anne S. Watkins
Oh, I want to go up in the hills
And lay me down on the earth,
'Neath a tree where the mocking bird trills
And the bees are humming their mirth.
Oh, I want to hear grasshoppers scraping
Their complaints upon their hind legs
And see all the winged things mating.
Nesting and laying their eggs.
To hear the whippoorwill cry
From out the wood by the river,
And think how I would hate to die.
And sit up all in a shiver.
Oh, I want to get drunk on the smell
That the sun extracts from the ground,
I want to sleep long and well
On this splendid secret I've found.
And then to be waked with a kiss.
Let fall from eventide
Full of the dew drops' bliss.
And all other sweets beside.
Yes, I want to talk with the Maker
Of all this lovely creation.
To thank Him that I am partaker.
Exalted whatever my station.
Poet: Lucy P. Scott
How green and bright the dear grass is!
I'm glad the summer's come;
It's lovely to run in the field
Where fat bees buzz and hum.
It's nice to sit out on the porch
When it's warm to run about,
For winter's always in, you see.
But summer's always out.
Of course the fire is pleasant too,
To warm your frozen toes;
It*s pleasant when the twilight comes
To talk while someone sews;
I love my books, I love to read
The things they're all about,
But winter's always in, you see.
And summer's always out.
Thanksgiving comes when it is cold,
And there is Christmas too.
And both days we have lots of fun
With many things to do;
We always go to Grandad's
And kick up such a din!
But summer's always out you see,
And winter it is in.
So, after all, sweet summer's best.
How blue the sky can be!
The buttercups and garden flowers
Just blossom all for me.
It's fine to run against the breeze.
To dance and jump about,
For winter's it is always in.
But summer's it is out.
More poems:
Pumpkin Poems
Harvest Poems
Harvest Moon Poems
Poet: Unknown
Spring
Is this a time to be gloomy and sad,
When our mother Nature laughs around,
When even the deep blue heavens look glad,
And gladness breathes from the blossoming ground?
The clouds are at play in the azure space,
And their shadows at play on the bright green vale;
And here they stretch to the frolic chase,
And there they roll on the easy gale.
And look at the broad-faced sun, how he smiles
On the dewy earth that smiles on his ray,
On the leaping waters and gay young isles;
Aye, look, and he'll smile thy gloom away.
Summer
When summer comes in radiant dress,
And sunshine floods the land,
And blossoms, buds, and butterflies
Are seen on every hand,
It's quite beyond disputing
That, far more than the rest -
The winter, spring, and autumn -
I love sweet summer best.
Autumn
There's music in the air,
Soft as the bee's low hum;
There's music in the air,
When the autumn days are come.
Fairies sweet, your songs we hear;
At times you're sad, then full of cheer.
Come out! come out! we know you're near,
By the music in the air.
Winter
Old Winter comes forth in his robe of white;
He sends the sweet flowers far out of sight;
He robs the trees of their green leaves bright;
He freezes the pond and river.
We like the spring with its fine fresh air;
We like the summer with flowers so fair;
We like the fruits we in autumn share;
And we like, too, old Winter's greeting.
Poems about the last three months:
September Poems
October Poems
November Poems
December Poems
Poet: Catherine Pulsifer
Oh how swiftly seasons pass us by,
Like hands on a clock, they change each quarter.
With grace, they come and bid farewell,
Leaving memories to cherish and remember.
The warmth of spring brings life anew,
Summer radiates with its golden hue.
Autumn paints a picture, colors so rare,
And winter's embrace fills the air.
Each year, the seasons come and go,
Teaching us to appreciate as they flow.
Poet: Catherine Pulsifer
Each season brings a special time,
Changing like our lives' sweet rhyme.
Spring's flowers bloom in colorful delight,
As new beginnings take their flight.
Summer's warmth wraps us in its embrace,
Filling days with joy at a steady pace.
Autumn's hues paint nature's splendid show,
Reminding us of the beauty life can bestow.
Winter's chill brings a tranquil grace,
A time for reflection, in a quieter space.
With gratitude, we embrace each timely shift,
For seasons, like life, offer us a precious gift.
Famous poems to inspire about the seasons:
Famous Poems About The Seasons
Poems About the Change of Seasons
Poet: Unknown
Oh! teach me, thou forest, to testify glad,
As in autumn the gloom of thy yellowing leaf,
That my spring cometh back after winter, the seed;
That my tree gleameth green after mournfulness brief;
The roots of my tree stand deep, strong, and divine
In eternity's summer: oh, why, then, repine!
