Classic Poem

The year is like a king. In winter days
He sheathes himself in ice, a glittering mail,
In which his enemies he may assail—
Guarding his throne in cold and bitter ways.
A king again, aside he quickly lays
His helm and greaves when summer winds her frail
But potent spell about him in some dale
Where Nature acts her royal mimic plays.

Yet to his feet again, at touch of Frost,
He leaps from dalliance, breathes the northern air,
Drinks deep the musk wine that the maids have trod,
And cries: “September, vassal, art thou lost?
Ho! I am king; my royal robes I'll wear—
The purple aster and the goldenrod!”