Harriet Beecher Stowe

“ Who wheels the seasons in their mazy course,
While hand in hand their measured round they trode.
Maker of the new-born year,
Great Creator, bending, hear;
Lo! we bow in adoration,
Join the chorus of creation.
Thine the flowery spring's perfume,
Thine the glowing summer's bloom,
Thine the autumn's varied dyes,
Freshening fruits and cloudless skies ”

“ Sedate and mild the cast of her blue eye;
Serene her smile as moonlight's placid ray.
She wore a robe of thousand varied hues,
Brighter than all the emerald dyes of spring,
Or summer's deeper green and firmer tinge. ”

“ And near her stood November's pensive form.
Her mournful air, her frequent flowing tears,
Her drooping form, her wreath all sear and dead,
Her faded robe presaged decay and death.
Near her three figures firm and tall there stood,
Fair were their faces but still deadly pale;
Bright were their clear blue eyes, tho' cold and chill:
An icy helmet bound their pallid brows;
An icy spear gleamed in each frozen hand ”