One asketh: <br />'Tell me, Myrson, tell me true: <br />What's the season pleaseth you? <br />Is it summer suits you best, <br />When from harvest toil we rest? <br />Is it autumn with its glory <br />Of all surfeited desires? <br />Is it winter, when with story <br />And with song we hug our fires? <br />Or is spring most fair to you- <br />Come, good Myrson, tell me true!' <br /> <br />Another answereth: <br />'What the gods in wisdom send <br />We should question not, my friend; <br />Yet, since you entreat of me, <br />I will answer reverently: <br />Me the summertime displeases, <br />For its sun is scorching hot; <br />Autumn brings such dire diseases <br />That perforce I like it not; <br />As for biting winter, oh! <br />How I hate its ice and snow! <br /> <br />'But, thrice welcome, kindly spring, <br />With the myriad gifts you bring! <br />Not too hot nor yet too cold, <br />Graciously your charms unfold- <br />Oh, your days are like the dreaming <br />Of those nights which love beseems, <br />And your nights have all the seeming <br />Of those days of golden dreams! <br />Heaven smiles down on earth, and then <br />Earth smiles up to heaven again!'<br /><br />Eugene Field<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-spring-poem-from-bion-2/
