January brings the snow, Makes our feet and fingers glow.
February brings the rain, Thaws the frozen lake again.
March brings breezes, loud and shrill, To stir the dancing daffodil.
April brings the primrose sweet, Scatters daisies at our feet.
May brings flocks of pretty lambs, Skipping by their fleecy dams.
June brings tulips, lilies, roses, Fills the children's bands with posies.
Hot July brings cooling showers, Apricots and gilly flowers.
August brings the sheaves of corn, Then the harvest home is borne.
Warm September brings the fruit; Sportsmen then begin to shoot.
Fresh October brings the pheasant; Then to gather nuts is pleasant.
Dull November brings the blast, Then the leaves are whirling fast.
Chill December brings the sleet, Blazing fire and Christmas treat.
-Sara Coleridge
Doesn't even begin to compare with what I believe is the perfect 19th century poem...
SURPRISED by joy--impatient as the Wind I turned to share the transport--Oh! with whom But Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb, That spot which no vicissitude can find? Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind-- But how could I forget thee? Through what power, Even for the least division of an hour, Have I been so beguiled as to be blind To my most grievous loss?--That thought's return Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore,
Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn, Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more; That neither present time, nor years unborn Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.
19 posted on 11/24/2001 7:08:34 PM PST by Joe 6-pack