Nay, do not quarrel with the seasons, dear, <br />Nor make an enemy of friendly Time. <br />The fruit and foliage of the failing year <br />Rival the buds and blossoms of its prime. <br />Is not the harvest moon as round and bright <br />As that to which the nightingales did sing? <br />And thou, that call'st thyself my satellite, <br />Wilt seem in Autumn all thou art in Spring. <br />When steadfast sunshine follows fitful rain, <br />And gleams the sickle where once passed the plough, <br />Since tender green hath grown to mellow grain, <br />Love then will gather what it scattereth now, <br />And, like contented reaper, rest its head <br />Upon the sheaves itself hath harvested.<br /><br />Alfred Austin<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/love-s-harvest-2/
