Category: Seasons

O Wind that Whips the lilacs there,
And the elm’s long branches: yet half-bare;
That makes the lawn to ripple and dance,
While the tulips nod at each other’s glance;
That causes the poplar to shudder and cringe,
The spruce to wobble like last night’s binge;
Causing rain drops to bullet against the pane–
Go away (for it’s MAY) til it’s March again.

But in truth, we’re contented as all-get-out:
Windy poet has something to write about!

Puff away, O Wind, til I shut my mouth,
For it’s May, and you’re BLOWING FROM THE SOUTH!

by Ray Romine Sunday, May 16, 1943

Snow falls upon the garden now
In dancing, whirling spins;
It’s winter, covering, with a bow,
A multitude of sins!

by Ray Romine Monday, June 16, 1952

Frogs pipe away the last March freeze;
A puddle slakes awakened bees;
The eager sap climbs starving trees– ,
And spring returns by slow degrees.

by Ray Romine Monday, September 15, 1952

Yellow ash and red-leaved maple;
Trimmings fancy, nothing staple;
Orange berries on a bough;
Hills that blaze in splendor now.
Nature’s Fall Show-special booking–
And I’m the only one who’s looking!

by Ray Romine Thursday, October 2, 1952

I’m never sure which has the edge:
Shoveling snow or trimming hedge.
I don’t like soil (dirt?) to spade and turn,
Nor care for leaves to rake and burn,
And now you have the entire reason
I do not have a favorite season.

by Ray Romine Monday, June 12, 1950

While summer was welcomed, feted, and spoiled,
And schemes to hold her here with us were foiled
When she kissed us and hurried away,
Here comes winter, dragging and old,
Wizened, unwanted, cranky and cold,
And announces a six-months’ stay!

by Ray Romine Saturday, April 7, 1951

The last day of August is once more st hand–
Now where is that Summer we carefully planned?

We meant to Vacation a week–maybe two,
But the budget, it hollered–I worked right on through.

I thought we’d go fishing a heck of a lot,
But the nights were so cool, and the days were too hot.

I thought we’d go swimming each week-end or so,
But girls’ suits got so rare that the wifey–you know!

I thought we would picnic with some of the bunch,
But the skeeters devoured us–the flies ate our lunch.

I thought I would raise us a vegetable crop,
But it turned out to be my most horrible flop.

So I tried to raise flowers, but two months ago
The insects moved elsewhere; they can’t starve, you know.

The first of Seotember is with us, but then
The first of next June, we’ll try it again.

by Ray Romine Wednesday, September 2, 1936

June, July, August, and summer is over
In a short week or two we’ll be hailing October.
This month isn’t bad, but you oughta remember
That looking ahead is what ruins September.

The grapes are just about ready for picking
And the wine that they’d make would send Hercules kicking.
The pears and the peaches were never so yeller,
The apples are asking the way to our cellar.

September sunshine’s a wonderful tonic
But we’d like it to be just a little more chronic–
September’s swell, and you can’t get around it,
But winter’s so near that it spoils things,
confound it!

by Ray Romine Friday, September 13, 1935

The time is almost here, I know,
When wintry winds–and I–shall blow.

by Ray Romine Thursday, June 14, 1951

May is that happy gala one,
The playful tomboy rare
Who chases rainbows to the sun,
An iris in her hair.

Her carelessness is awesome!
Fresh from her dew-fed bath,
She scatters bird and blossom
And laughter from her path.

by Ray Romine Monday, September 10, 1951