On the wind of January
         Down flits the snow,
Travelling from the frozen North
         As cold as it can blow.
Poor robin redbreast,
         Look where he comes;
Let him in to feel your fire,
         And toss him of your crumbs.

On the wind in February
         Snow-flakes float still,
Half inclined to turn to rain,
         Nipping, dripping, chill.
Then the thaws swell the streams,
         And swollen rivers swell the sea:--
If the winter ever ends
         How pleasant it will be.

In the wind of windy March
         The catkins drop down,
Curly, caterpillar-like,
         Curious green and brown.
With concourse of nest-building birds
         And leaf-buds by the way,
We begin to think of flowers
         And life and nuts some day.
With the gusts of April
         Rich fruit-tree blossoms fall,
On the hedged-in orchard-green,
         From the southern wall.
Apple-trees and pear-trees
         Shed petals white or pink,
Plum-trees and peach-trees;
         While sharp showers sink and sink.

Little brings the May breeze
        Beside pure scent of flowers,
While all things wax and nothing wanes
         In lengthening daylight hours.
Across the hyacinth beds
         The wind lags warm and sweet,
Across the hawthorn tops,
         Across the blades of wheat.

In the wind of sunny June
         Thrives the red rose crop,
Every day fresh blossoms blow
         While the first leaves drop;
White rose and yellow rose
         And moss-rose choice to find,
And the cottage cabbage-rose
         Not one whit behind.
On the blast of scorched July
         Drives the pelting hail,
From thunderous lightning-clouds, that blot
         Blue heaven grown lurid-pale.
Weedy waves are tossed ashore,
         Sea-things strange to sight
Gasp upon the barren shore
         And fade away in light.

In the parching August wind,
         Cornfields bow the head,
Sheltered in round valley depths,
         On low hills outspread.
Early leaves drop loitering down
         Weightless on the breeze,
First-fruits of the year's decay
         From the withering trees.

In brisk wind of September
         The heavy-headed fruits
Shake upon their bending boughs
         And drop from the shoots;
Some glow golden in the sun,
         Some show green and streaked
Some set forth a purple bloom,
         Some blush rosy-cheeked.
In strong blast of October
         At the equinox,
Stirred up in his hollow bed
         Broad ocean rocks;
Plunge the ships on his bosom,
         Leaps and plunges the foam,--
It's O for mothers' sons at sea,
         That they were safe at home!

In slack wind of November
         The fog forms and shifts;
All the world comes out again
         When the fog lifts.
Loosened from their sapless twigs
         Leaves drop with every gust;
Drifting, rustling, out of sight
         In the damp or dust.

Last of all, December,
         The year's sands nearly run,
Speeds on the shortest day,
         Curtails the sun;
With its bleak raw wind
         Lays the last leaves low,
Brings back the nightly frosts,
         Brings back the snow.