Seasons
 
                        I
 
That little pile of snow,
Melting in the spring,
Will always
As you remember
Remind you of something
Lost during winter;
 
Now that it's gone, or going,
And you're relieved
It's no longer snowing,
What will you think
Of green summer's hope
When the mowers start mowing?
 
                                II
 
The pleasure of youth is having
              Things still to know,
The curse of age, having
              Nowhere to go,
 
The curse of winter,
              Snow,
And summer?
              Oh. Oh—!
 
 
 
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