"A Masque for the Four Seasons" by Walter Crane‘The Four Seasons’: A Poem by Daniel Howard The Society April 7, 2025 Beauty, Love Poems, Poetry 13 Comments . The Four Seasons . Spring I Amidst the cloudless sky and crimson dawn Comes bursting forth the bluebird’s orange breast, Whose shadow dances o’er the dewy lawn On having found last February’s nest; There he releases from his swollen chest A song to which the jay, the wren, the dove Supply the chorus, rousing thus from rest The mammals that had long been dreaming of His lady bluebird warbling back ‘my love, my love’. II As fair to lookers-on as she is fragile, A fawn hides in the grass, her legs half-bent, But soon her lean and gentle limbs are agile, And let her march along in merriment; Yet mother deer is anxious to prevent Her daughter doe, whose skin she licks and dries, From giving off too sweet a new-born scent, Experience long having made her wise To sets of mesmerised and all-admiring eyes. III Be not afraid as yet, for Nature loans An hour-long sense of empathy and care, When moss will blanket o’er unburied bones To save the young ones from a needless scare; For there is something in the springtime air That briefly makes each growling beast grow mild, Abundance will incline hard hearts to spare One moment for all those who smile and smiled While looking down upon their small defenceless child. IV And as the hours of sunlight slowly lengthen, The rivers and the weeks roll swiftly on, Warm winds allow the vocal chords to strengthen As tufts of down fall downwards to the lawn. Their rodent-hunting parents having gone, The fox cubs feel about for new sensations: Leaving the den to which they were withdrawn, Each lightly bears the lofty expectations Of several thousand past and future generations. V The robin’s feathers have begun to fledge, And in his flaming breast burns the desire To walk beyond the branch’s wind-blown edge, And for adventure’s sake he might expire, But strength of will now lifts him ever higher, And as I watch him fly upon each wing, Within my thoughts beginning to retire, I breathe a heavy sigh through which I sing Not of what Spring had brought, but what she could not bring. . Summer VI Within a village few now call their home Stands an abandoned shed of broken stone To which the swallow-of-the-barn will roam To make a little kingdom of his own; There thrusting out his breast from his new throne, He sings away in hope his special one Will start to fly, as she before had flown, To that abode which other creatures shun, To hide with him from Summer’s ever-watchful sun. VII In time I spot a long-tailed spotted kestrel, Now nestled in the hollow of a bole, Tilting his head on hearing the orchestral Chorus of crickets echoing through that hole; There gazing out on the abundant whole, The waterways and reeds of his locale Through which there wanders yet another vole, Shall he not think, as others like him shall, That Summer’s spoils are endless like this long canal? VIII For midst the plenty that the season brings, Each evening offering fresh beds of hay, Amidst the triumph of all living things That reproduce themselves each passing day, And midst this paradise of pomp and play, The hunger and the fear that used to last For weeks on end have long been cast away, And all the trials through which each bloodline passed Become the myths of a forgotten ancient past. IX He who associates the sound of June With choughs, the sparrow or the sanderling, And links the smell of Summer’s afternoon With fresh-cut grass of bright-green colouring, Has never heard the trickling of a spring While thirsting underneath the sunshine’s glitter, Nor ever felt the ice-cube’s pleasant sting, Yet I who am at present the emitter Of such a flowing spring taste nought that is not bitter. X For even as the welcome warmth of heat That hitherto had caused the trees to soar Enflames the fields of barley and of wheat, And burns the dried-out forest to the floor; The spark of love that warmed me once before, And kindled tender feelings of compassion, Enflames, engulfs, consumes me to my core; And of the veins that poured hot-blooded passion Is left this remnant of myself, worn out and ashen. . Autumn XI As shorter days invisibly diminish The time of play beneath the evening light, Making the carefree games of children finish After the sudden onset of the night; The leaves and foliage of the woods unite In taking on the colours of the sun, Affording thus a face both warm and bright To those the aging star was forced to shun For want of energy once more to kiss each one. XII A gentle zephyr blows upon the shoot To which a group of purple grapes was bound, Their juices staining every vine and root That breaks their hastened fall towards the ground; And now the moths and beetles gather round To feed upon the over-ripened waste: Look how they swim or seem to have been drowned In wine that hitherto had been encased— Is Autumn not of Summer the sweet aftertaste? XIII The floor is strewn with fallen leaves and twigs Beneath which dormice, frogs and hedgehogs creep, While red-breast squirrels gather nuts and figs On which to feed before their weeks-long sleep; And he who in the caverns ventures deep Finds butterflies and flocks of bats there too, Suspended from the rock whose ceilings seep; How many more would sleep the winter through If they were now aware of all that must ensue? XIV As one more leaf along the water drifts, Its shadow darkening the riverbed, The willow warblers, cuckoos and the swifts Fly further from the place where they had bred; And I must lead, as I have often led, Their long migration to another nest, For I am as a swallow who can tread The North and South, the East and then the West While never leaving home, for Earth’s my place of rest. XV But as you bid adieu, god bless, good day, The heart bleeds tears of sorrowful remorse; The sight of you whose image fades away Changes the mind as fast as winds change course. But life is as a stream whose onward force Nor man nor beast can bend to his command, And from it springs my sadness’ hidden source: Time marches on, will not come to a stand, But passes like a current through the clasping hand. . Winter XVI The wind that carried birdsong at its will Retains its breath, and every bird its call; The water that was flowing down the hill Clings to the rocks o’er which it used to crawl, And silent are the flakes of snow that fall Throughout the mute, monotonous atmosphere, No longer is there any sound at all Except for gentle whispers in my ear From thoughts reflecting back upon the passing year. XVII How many shiver o’er a makeshift fire To heat numb fingers or a frost-nipped nose; To satisfy the body’s great desire To feel the blood come circling through the toes? Yet warmest is that fire to which one goes Once more to feel as one before had felt, To let the focus of one’s mind repose Upon the flames, and there long having dwelt, Within the fervent thoughts of times long past to melt. XVIII But morning will in time renew the tear The mind secretes on waking to its pains; The eyes will gaze on objects far and near, But all is white upon the streams and plains, As if the world were an old man whose veins Are clotting up and slowly freezing o’er, Whose fate is sealed, and all that now remains Is to endure the thought of how much more That suffering can last which makes the heart feel sore. XIX The barren, snow-capped branches thirst for sap, But their great tree is rotten to the root, Each one-by-one begins to break and snap For want of strength to bear some future fruit. Of an ancestral tree one living shoot Lingers as yet in this new-orphaned roe, Who in a world now rendered destitute Sought the weaned udders of her mother doe, But knows not where she went, nor where herself must go. XX Look how the famished nine-month-old gazelle Fruitlessly braves the brisk November cold, And in each field on which the snowdrops fell Searches for meadows strewn with marigold, Which died away ere frost had taken hold. With none to tell her, how can she conceive Of winter’s end, and thereby be consoled? Or being told, yet how can I believe That I will feel again the sun for which I grieve? . . Daniel Joseph Howard studied law in his native Ireland, earned an MA in philosophy at King’s College London and worked for the European Commission. He is currently a pensionnaire étranger at the École Normale Supérieure in Paris, as well as a Teaching Fellow and PhD candidate in the United States. NOTE TO READERS: If you enjoyed this poem or other content, please consider making a donation to the Society of Classical Poets. The Society of Classical Poets does not endorse any views expressed in individual poems or commentary. ***Read Our Comments Policy Here*** 13 Responses Mark Stellinga April 7, 2025 VERY impressive, Daniel – 180 exquisite lines of very demanding and impeccable rhyme depicting a myriad of what all transpires as our 4 distinct seasons evolve. Again, very impressive. Reply Daniel Howard April 9, 2025 Thank you, Mark. 180 lines add up more quickly than you might expect, especially when writing in a long stanza; having said that, it must be an altogether different experience to write 180 lines in blank verse or in heroic couplets. Reply Cheryl A Corey April 7, 2025 Wow, Daniel – I mean – Wow! Reply Daniel Howard April 9, 2025 You are too kind, Cheryl. Thank you. Reply Paul A. Freeman April 7, 2025 I haven’t experienced the four season of northern climes for some years – until I read your poem, Daniel. Thanks for the read. Reply Daniel Howard April 9, 2025 I wonder which northern clime you experienced in particular, Paul? Reply Paul A. Freeman April 9, 2025 That would be England, Daniel, though I’ll be back for a month or two in the summer. Margaret Coats April 7, 2025 Truly admirable, Daniel. Splendidly smooth Spenserian stanzas, with many memorable lines–and what I would call a masterful sense of the line. That is, the reader can usually pause to enjoy each individual line. Enjambment, when it happens, is gentle and does not detract from the changing seasonal savor of these lines. This is not to diminish what you build with them: separate portraits of the seasons, and a year’s story of human emotion expressed in seasonal terms, with several wild meadows’ worth of attention-getting fauna to support the movement of time and change. The whole is delightful, but I find the rendering of Summer particularly fine. Wonderful description of this season as a “paradise of pomp and play.” Stanza VIII is very good. Other remarkable spots are the “life stream” of Autumn, Autumn’s last line, and the final question of the entire piece at the end of Winter. You’ve created here a poem to appeal to leisurely readers of the present. It deserves to enjoy success similar to that of James Thomson’s book-length The Seasons in its day. It is shorter, as is the patience of contemporary readers, and simpler in style than Thomson’s echoes of Milton with Latinate vocabulary. Though it belongs rather to the Spenserian tradition because of the stanza form, it uses wording that is at once forthright and elegant, with little of Spenser’s conscious archaism. Excellent and enjoyable. Reply Daniel Howard April 9, 2025 Thank you very much, Margaret, for your characteristically charitable and insightful comment. I had never read James Thomson’s The Seasons before; perhaps it has not been in print for some time, as I have never seen it in a book shop. But having found an edition online, you rightly recognise the influence of Milton’s style, not to mention the blank verse. Thomson certainly set an imposing but worthy standard for the length of a poem touching each of the four seasons. To my mind, a more natural division for such a long poem would not be each season, but each month of the year, à la Spencer’s Shepherd’s Calendar. I have been thinking of writing a Celtic Calendar myself, and am grateful to you that I will now be able to read Thomson before embarking on such a long-term side project (that might never see the light of day). Reply Cynthia Erlandson April 8, 2025 This is all so beautiful, Daniel. It should be set to music. Since autumn is my favorite season, that part is probably my favorite — especially the very visual description of what is happening to the grapes. Lovely! Reply Daniel Howard April 9, 2025 That is very high praise, Cynthia, though the musicality owes more to Spencer than myself. Thanks for your generosity. Reply Shamik Banerjee April 12, 2025 No words of mine can praise the splendour and beauty of this poem, Daniel! Incredible, incredible!! Reply Daniel Howard April 15, 2025 Thanks Shamik, that’s very kind of you! Reply Leave a Reply Cancel ReplyYour email address will not be published.CommentName* Email* Website Δ This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.
Mark Stellinga April 7, 2025 VERY impressive, Daniel – 180 exquisite lines of very demanding and impeccable rhyme depicting a myriad of what all transpires as our 4 distinct seasons evolve. Again, very impressive. Reply
Daniel Howard April 9, 2025 Thank you, Mark. 180 lines add up more quickly than you might expect, especially when writing in a long stanza; having said that, it must be an altogether different experience to write 180 lines in blank verse or in heroic couplets. Reply
Paul A. Freeman April 7, 2025 I haven’t experienced the four season of northern climes for some years – until I read your poem, Daniel. Thanks for the read. Reply
Paul A. Freeman April 9, 2025 That would be England, Daniel, though I’ll be back for a month or two in the summer.
Margaret Coats April 7, 2025 Truly admirable, Daniel. Splendidly smooth Spenserian stanzas, with many memorable lines–and what I would call a masterful sense of the line. That is, the reader can usually pause to enjoy each individual line. Enjambment, when it happens, is gentle and does not detract from the changing seasonal savor of these lines. This is not to diminish what you build with them: separate portraits of the seasons, and a year’s story of human emotion expressed in seasonal terms, with several wild meadows’ worth of attention-getting fauna to support the movement of time and change. The whole is delightful, but I find the rendering of Summer particularly fine. Wonderful description of this season as a “paradise of pomp and play.” Stanza VIII is very good. Other remarkable spots are the “life stream” of Autumn, Autumn’s last line, and the final question of the entire piece at the end of Winter. You’ve created here a poem to appeal to leisurely readers of the present. It deserves to enjoy success similar to that of James Thomson’s book-length The Seasons in its day. It is shorter, as is the patience of contemporary readers, and simpler in style than Thomson’s echoes of Milton with Latinate vocabulary. Though it belongs rather to the Spenserian tradition because of the stanza form, it uses wording that is at once forthright and elegant, with little of Spenser’s conscious archaism. Excellent and enjoyable. Reply
Daniel Howard April 9, 2025 Thank you very much, Margaret, for your characteristically charitable and insightful comment. I had never read James Thomson’s The Seasons before; perhaps it has not been in print for some time, as I have never seen it in a book shop. But having found an edition online, you rightly recognise the influence of Milton’s style, not to mention the blank verse. Thomson certainly set an imposing but worthy standard for the length of a poem touching each of the four seasons. To my mind, a more natural division for such a long poem would not be each season, but each month of the year, à la Spencer’s Shepherd’s Calendar. I have been thinking of writing a Celtic Calendar myself, and am grateful to you that I will now be able to read Thomson before embarking on such a long-term side project (that might never see the light of day). Reply
Cynthia Erlandson April 8, 2025 This is all so beautiful, Daniel. It should be set to music. Since autumn is my favorite season, that part is probably my favorite — especially the very visual description of what is happening to the grapes. Lovely! Reply
Daniel Howard April 9, 2025 That is very high praise, Cynthia, though the musicality owes more to Spencer than myself. Thanks for your generosity. Reply
Shamik Banerjee April 12, 2025 No words of mine can praise the splendour and beauty of this poem, Daniel! Incredible, incredible!! Reply