Twelve moons have waxed and waned, — the infant year
Hath wept her tears into the violet's bell,
Recalling them in sweetness — summer fair
Hath pierced the bottom of the forest dell,
And left a smile there; and the moaning swell
Of autumn gales has made the green leaf sear;
And wintry tempests rung creation's knell,
And shrouded her in snows, since withering care
Threw o'er my dearest themes oblivion and despair.


Sherwood Forest
Robert Millhouse