THE rose-pink Earth in April wears 
   The flush of youth; 
   A maiden still, she hardly dares 
To meet Spring’s troth! 

When June comes, paler grows her brow 
   In passion’s pain. 
   She hides with sunburnt Summer now 
Among the grain. 

In August’s mad bacchante mood 
   She bares her breast 
   To Autumn, rolling in the blood 
Of grapes new-pressed. 

And in December, weazened, old, 
   Frost-powdered, white, 
   She dreams beside old Winter cold, 
Who sleeps all night.