A calendar knows little of a day, Of any day; its arbitrary squares Mark seasons as they amble on their way From holy Advent ‘til the harvest fairs,
When summer’s crops, all red and gold and blue, Along with piglets, ducks, some well-fed hens, Are carted squeaking, squealing, creaking to Saint Michael’s fields in the Anglian fens.
Old Father William lifts a pint (no less!) With farmers selling cows and chicks and corn, For he is merry too, and quick to bless The laboring marsh-folk on this autumn morn.
Earth, sky, and air mark seasons as they fall, And now comes Martinmas, joyfully, for all.