XXIII
Comes the season of summer with its soft breezes, When Zephyr soughs gently o’er seedling and grass; Oh! winsome is the wort on the wold that awakens To bíde a blíssful glánce of the bright sun, When the dripping dew drops from the leafage. But Autumn soon hies with his harder weather, And warns it ere winter to wax and be ripe; Then drives he with drought the dust to arise, That it flies on high, from the face of the fold. Wroth winds of the welkin wrestle with the sun, Leaves dart from linden and light to the ground, And the grass grows gray that green was before. Then all ripens and rots that rose up in springtime, And thus yerns the year in yesterdays many, And winter winds back, ’tis the world’s order, (Ah true!) Until Michelmas moon Is come, and winter’s due; Then thinks Gawain full soon Of the ride that he must rue.