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Title: The Seasons All Are Beautiful
Author: John S. Adams [
More Titles by Adams]
THE seasons all are beautiful,
There is not one that's sad,--
Not one that does not give to thee
A thought to make thee glad.
I have heard a mournful cadence
Fall on my listening ear,--
'T was some one whispering, mournfully,
"The Autumn days are here."
But Autumn is not sorrowful,--
O, full of joy is it;
I love at twilight hour to watch
The shadows as they flit,--
The shadows of the falling leaves,
Upon their forest bed,
And hear the rustling music tones
Beneath the maiden's tread.
The falling leaf! Say, what has it
To sadden human thought?
For are not all its hours of life
With dancing beauty fraught?
And, having danced and sang its joy,
It seeketh now its rest,--
Is there a better place for it
Than on its parent's breast?
Ye think it dies. So they of old
Thought of the soul of man.
But, ah, ye know not all its course
Since first its life began,
And ye know not what future waits,
Or what essential part
That fallen leaf has yet to fill,
In God's great work of art.
Count years and years, then multiply
The whole till ages crowd
Upon your mind, and even then
Ye shall not see its shroud.
But ye may see,--if look you can
Upon that fallen leaf,--
A higher life for it than now
The life you deem so brief.
And so shall we to higher life
And purer joys ascend;
And, passing on, and on, and on,
Be further from our end.
This is the truth that Autumn brings,--
Is aught of sorrow here?
If not, then deem it beautiful,
Keep back the intrusive tear.
Spring surely you'll call beautiful,
With its early buds and flowers,
Its bubbling brooks, its gushing streams,
And gentle twilight hours.
And Summer, that is beautiful,
With fragrance on each breeze,
And myriad warblers that give
Free concerts 'mong the trees.
I've told you of the Autumn days,
Ye cannot call them sad,
With such a lesson as they teach,
To make the spirit glad.
And Winter comes; how clear and cold,
In dazzling brilliance drest!-
Say, is not Winter beautiful,
With jewels on his crest?
Thus are all seasons beautiful;
They all have joy for thee,
And gladness for each living soul
Comes from them full and free.
[The end]
John S. Adams's poem: Seasons All Are Beautiful
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