Winter is many months of the year
by Veronica Ann Twells
But now at last Maytime is here;
And birds sing from a leafy screen
In the trees and hedgerow freshly green;
And the wood-anemone is out in the shade,
With its blushing petals which too soon fade;
Once more the bracken is unfurling there,
And bluebells gently perfume the damp air.
Once more golden buttercups blow in the field,
And among the flowers young children kneel.
Once more wild chervil bedecks with white lace
Each grassy hollow and wayside place;
And the cuckoo calls across the land...
How welcome is its curious sound;
And how glad I am to see
Blossom appear upon the hawthorn tree.