THE ODES TO THE MONTHS

(After Aneurin, a sixth-century warrior bard)


Month of Janus, the coom is smoke-fuming;
Weary the wine-bearer; minstrels far roaming;
Lean are the kine; the bees never humming;
Milking-folds void; to the kiln no meat coming;
Gaunt every steed; no pert sparrows strumming;
Long the night till the dawn; but a glimpse is the gloaming.
Sapient Cynfelyn, this was thy summing;
"Prudence is Man's surest guide, by my dooming."

* * * * *

Month of Mars; the birds become bolder;
Wounding the wind upon the cape's shoulder;
Serene skies delay till the young crops are older;
Anger burns on, when grief waxes colder;
Every man's mind some dread may unsolder;
Each bird wins the may that hath long been a scolder;
Each seed cleaves the clay, though for long months amoulder,
Yet the dead still must stay in the tomb, their strong holder.

* * * * *

Month of Augustus--the beach is a-spray;
Blithesome the bee and the hive full alway;
Better work than the bow hath the sickle to-day;