For Yule was now over-past,[3] and the year after, each season in its
turn following the other. For after Christmas comes crabbed Lent, that
will have fish for flesh and simpler cheer. But then the weather of the
world chides with winter; the cold withdraws itself, the clouds uplift,
and the rain falls in warm showers on the fair plains. Then the flowers
come forth, meadows and groves are clad in green, the birds make ready
to build, and sing sweetly for solace of the soft summer that follows
thereafter. The blossoms bud and blow in the hedgerows rich and rank,
and noble notes enough are heard in the fair woods.
After the season of summer, with the soft winds, when zephyr breathes
lightly on seeds and herbs, joyous indeed is the growth that waxes
thereout when the dew drips from the leaves beneath the blissful glance
of the bright sun. But then comes harvest and hardens the grain, warning
it to wax ripe ere the winter. The drought drives the dust on high,
flying over the face of the land; the angry wind of the welkin wrestles
with the sun; the leaves fall from the trees and light upon the ground,
and all brown are the groves that but now were green, and ripe is the
fruit that once was flower. So the year passes into many yesterdays, and
winter comes again, as it needs no sage to tell us.