Flattered With Promise Of Escape From Every Hurtful Blast, Spring Takes, O Sprightly May! Thy Shape, Her Loveliest And Her Last. Less Fair Is Summer Riding High In Fierce Solstitial Power, Less Fair Than When A Lenient Sky Brings On Her Parting Hour. When Earth Repays With Golden Sheaves The Labours Of The Plough, And Ripening Fruits And Forest Leaves All Brighten On The Bough; What Pensive Beauty Autumn Shows, Before She Hears The Sound Of Winter Rushing In, To Close The Emblematic Round! Such Be Our Spring, Our Summer Such; So May Our Autumn Blend With Hoary Winter, And Life Touch, Through Heaven-Born Hope, Her End!