Christina Rossetti — A Years Windfalls

On the wind of January          Down flits the snow, Travelling from the frozen North          As cold as it can blow. Poor robin redbreast,          Look where he comes; Let him in to feel your fire,          And toss him of your crumbs. On the wind in February          Snow-flakes float still, Half inclined to turn to rain,          Nipping, dripping, chill. Then the thaws swell the streams,          And swollen rivers swell the sea:-- If the winter ever ends          How pleasant it will be. In the wind of windy March          The catkins drop down, Curly, caterpillar-like,          Curious green and brown. With concourse of nest-building birds          And leaf-buds by the way, We begin to think of flowers          And life and nuts some day. With the gusts of April          Rich fruit-tree blossoms fall, On the hedged-in orchard-green,          From the southern wall. Apple-trees and pear-trees          Shed petals white or pink, Plum-trees and peach-trees;          While sharp showers sink and sink. Little brings the May breeze         Beside pure scent of flowers, While all things wax and nothing wanes          In lengthening daylight hours. Across the hyacinth beds          The wind lags warm and sweet, Across the hawthorn tops,          Across the blades of wheat. In the wind of sunny June          Thrives the red rose crop, Every day fresh blossoms blow          While the first leaves drop; White rose and yellow rose          And moss-rose choice to find, And the cottage cabbage-rose          Not one whit behind. On the blast of scorched July          Drives the pelting hail, From thunderous lightning-clouds, that blot          Blue heaven grown lurid-pale. Weedy waves are tossed ashore,          Sea-things strange to sight Gasp upon the barren shore          And fade away in light. In the parching August wind,          Cornfields bow the head, Sheltered in round valley depths,          On low hills outspread. Early leaves drop loitering down          Weightless on the breeze, First-fruits of the year's decay          From the withering trees. In brisk wind of September          The heavy-headed fruits Shake upon their bending boughs          And drop from the shoots; Some glow golden in the sun,          Some show green and streaked Some set forth a purple bloom,          Some blush rosy-cheeked. In strong blast of October          At the equinox, Stirred up in his hollow bed          Broad ocean rocks; Plunge the ships on his bosom,          Leaps and plunges the foam,-- It's O for mothers' sons at sea,          That they were safe at home! In slack wind of November          The fog forms and shifts; All the world comes out again          When the fog lifts. Loosened from their sapless twigs          Leaves drop with every gust; Drifting, rustling, out of sight          In the damp or dust. Last of all, December,          The year's sands nearly run, Speeds on the shortest day,          Curtails the sun; With its bleak raw wind          Lays the last leaves low, Brings back the nightly frosts,          Brings back the snow.