One asketh: "Tell me, Myrson, tell me true: What's the season pleaseth you? Is it summer suits you best, When from harvest toil we rest? Is it autumn with its glory Of all surfeited desires? Is it winter, when with story And with song we hug our fires? Or is spring most fair to you-- Come, good Myrson, tell me true!"
Another answereth: "What the gods in wisdom send We should question not, my friend; Yet, since you entreat of me, I will answer reverently: Me the summertime displeases, For its sun is scorching hot; Autumn brings such dire diseases That perforce I like it not; As for biting winter, oh! How I hate its ice and snow!
"But, thrice welcome, kindly spring, With the myriad gifts you bring! Not too hot nor yet too cold, Graciously your charms unfold-- Oh, your days are like the dreaming Of those nights which love beseems, And your nights have all the seeming Of those days of golden dreams! Heaven smiles down on earth, and then Earth smiles up to heaven again!"