Winter fell like a short man's thing—
Too fast and well for us to see:
A gold-ring'd tool that mends the bell
And sets the fall of snowflakes free:

And autumn drained its leaf too quick,
Its tepid branch gives one no fun:
And almost brown the eyes could trick
When stars themselves spill out no sun.

And spring had sprayed such bad delight
In flowers eyes cannot see well,
And plants and trees sit back uptight
While sneezes mark the seasons well:

Now summer's here in aftertaste,
In sweat of bosoms and bricks nigh:
And oozings out of all man's face
That roams this earth thereon by.