Then again I sing till the roof doth ring

And it echoes from wall to wall⁠—

To the stout old wight, fair welcome tonight,

As the King of the Seasons all!”

A Christmas Carol

“I care not for Spring; on his fickle wing Let the blossoms and buds be borne; He woos them amain with his treacherous rain, And he scatters them ere the morn. An inconstant elf, he knows not himself, Nor his own changing mind an hour, He’ll smile in your face, and, with wry grimace, He’ll wither your youngest flower.