"Spring am I, too soft of heart
Much to speak ere I depart
Ask the summer-tide to prove
The abundance of my love.
"Summer looked for long am I
Much shall change or ere I die
Prithee take it not amiss
Though I weary thee with bliss.
"Laden autumn here I stand
Weak of heart and worn of hand
Speak the word that sets me free
Nought but rest seems good to me.
"Ah, shall winter mend your care
Set your teeth the wind to face
Beat the snow down, tread the frost
All is gained when all is lost."
William Morris, The Lapse of The Year (1870)