Spring and Autumn

When winter turns to spring,
    Birds that were songless make their songs resound,
    Flow'rs that were flow'rless cover all the ground;
    Yet 'tis no perfect thing:—
    I cannot walk, so tangled is each hill;
    So thick the herbs I cannot pluck my fill.
      But in the autumn-tide
    I cull the scarlet leaves and love them dear,
    And let the green leaves stay, with many a tear,
      All on the fair hill-side:—
    No time so sweet as that. Away! Away!
    Autumn's the time I fain would keep alway.