The Changeless Year. — Southern California
Doth Autumn remind thee of sadness?
And Winter of wasting and pain?
Midsummer, of joy that was madness?
Spring, of hope that was vain?
Do the Seasons fly fast at thy laughter?
Do the Seasons lag slow if thou weep,
Till thou long’st for the land lying after
The River of Sleep?
Come here, where the West lieth golden
In the light of an infinite sun,
Where Summer doth Winter embolden
Till they reign here as one!
Here the Seasons tread soft and steal slowly;
A moment of question and doubt—
Is it Winter? Come faster!—come wholly!—
And Spring rusheth out!
We forget there are tempests and changes;
We forget there are days that are drear;
In a dream of delight, the soul ranges
Through the measureless year.
Still the land is with blossoms enfolden,
Still the sky burneth blue in its deeps;
Time noddeth, ’mid poppies all golden,
And memory sleeps.