A spring poem from bion
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 gloryOf all surfeited desires?Is it winter, when with storyAnd 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 sendWe 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 diseasesThat 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 dreamingOf those nights which love beseems,And your nights have all the seemingOf those days of golden dreams!Heaven smiles down on earth, and thenEarth smiles up to heaven again!"
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