Blake's Season Poems: autum, spring, summer, key romantic poems and prophetic visions

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William Blake's Season Meditations

To Autumn

                         O Autumn, laden with fruit, and stain'd
                         With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit
                         Beneath my shady roof; there thou may'st rest,
                         And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe,
                         And all the daughters of the year shall dance!
                         Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers.

                         "The narrow bud opens her beauties to
                         The sun, and love runs in her thrilling veins;
                         Blossoms hang round the brows of Morning, and
                         Flourish down the bright cheek of modest Eve,
                         Till clust'ring Summer breaks forth into singing,
                         And feather'd clouds strew flowers round her head.

                         "The spirits of the air live in the smells
                         Of fruit; and Joy, with pinions light, roves round
                         The gardens, or sits singing in the trees."
                         Thus sang the jolly Autumn as he sat,
                         Then rose, girded himself, and o'er the bleak
                         Hills fled from our sight; but left his golden load.

To Spring

                         O thou with dewy locks, who lookest down
                         Thro' the clear windows of the morning, turn
                         Thine angel eyes upon our western isle,
                         Which in full choir hails thy approach, O Spring!

                         The hills tell each other, and the listening
                         Valleys hear; all our longing eyes are turned
                         Up to thy bright pavilions: issue forth,
                         And let thy holy feet visit our clime.

                         Come o'er the eastern hills, and let our winds
                         Kiss thy perfumed garments; let us taste
                         Thy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearls
                         Upon our love-sick land that mourns for thee.

                         O deck her forth with thy fair fingers; pour
                         Thy soft kisses on her bosom; and put
                         Thy golden crown upon her languished head,
                         Whose modest tresses were bound up for thee.

To Summer

                         O thou who passest thro' our valleys in
                         Thy strength, curb thy fierce steeds, allay the heat
                         That flames from their large nostrils! thou, O Summer,
                         Oft pitched'st here thy goldent tent, and oft
                         Beneath our oaks hast slept, while we beheld
                         With joy thy ruddy limbs and flourishing hair.

                         Beneath our thickest shades we oft have heard
                         Thy voice, when noon upon his fervid car
                         Rode o'er the deep of heaven; beside our springs
                         Sit down, and in our mossy valleys, on
                         Some bank beside a river clear, throw thy
                         Silk draperies off, and rush into the stream:
                         Our valleys love the Summer in his pride.

                         Our bards are fam'd who strike the silver wire:
                         Our youth are bolder than the southern swains:
                         Our maidens fairer in the sprightly dance:
                         We lack not songs, nor instruments of joy,
                         Nor echoes sweet, nor waters clear as heaven,
                         Nor laurel wreaths against the sultry heat.

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