He, when young Spring protrudes the bursting gems, <br />Into his freshened soul; her genial hours <br />He full enjoys; and not a beauty blows <br />And not an opening blossom breathes in vain. <br />In summer he, beneath the living shade, <br />Such as o'er frigid Tempe wont to wave <br />Or Hemus cool, reads what the Muse, of these <br />Perhaps, has in immortal numbers sung: <br />Or what she dictates writes: and, oft an eye <br />Shot round, rejoices in the vigorous year. <br />When Autumn's yellow lustre gilds the world, <br />And tempts the sickled swain into the field, <br />Seiz'd by the general joy, his heart distends <br />With gentle throes, and through the tepid gleams <br />Deep-musing, then he best exerts his song.<br /><br />James Thomson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/he-when-young-spring-protrudes-the-bursting-gems/