A season passes like the dew of morn.
At first it comes in stalwart and stout,
Until again it is reborn.
A season, in its time, is bright and warm,
In it comes, from the without,
Till passing like the dew of morn.
Sometimes quietly, or pelted by the storm,
When it comes it's come without a doubt,
As though again it's been reborn.
Whatever the reason of whatever norm,
Whatever the time it opens out,
It passes still like the dew of morn.
First it comes like a waking dawn,
Then its twilight comes about.
Until again it is reborn.
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