The Seasons.

Shout hurrah for the gorse on a fair Springtime morn,
When the paddocks and valleys the blooms all adorn;
When little gold patches crown hillock and vale,
And spill all their petals to fashion a trail.
Shout hurrah for a Springtime morn!
Sing hurrah for the brown and the red of the leaves,
And the gold of the corn and the freshly reaped sheaves—
On a crisp Autumn morn when the lanes are aglow,
With the thousands of leaves in a wide, scattered row.
Sing hurrah for a crisp Autumn morn!
Laugh hurrah for the cold on a harsh Winter's day,
When the rain drops are falling to dampen the hay,
And the creeks are all rushing and crystally clear,
There are scents of the grain in the fresh country air.
Laugh hurrah for a harsh Winter's day!
Say hurrah for a day that is scorching with heat,
And the scent of the briar-rose wafted is sweet,
When the grass is burnt brown in each paddock and lane,
So shout for the seasons in turn once again.
Say hurrah for a hot Summer's day!

—Jean Stevens.