Stopp'd short; yet still the solitary cliffs
Wheel'd by me-even as if the earth had roll'd
With visible motion her diurnal round!
Behind me did they stretch in solemn train,
Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watch'd
Till all was tranquil as a summer sea.
THIS is the eldest of the seasons: he
Moves not like Spring, with gradual step, nor grows
From bud to beauty, but with all his snows
Comes down at once in hoar antiquity.
No rains nor loud proclaiming tempests flee
Before him, nor unto his time belong
The suns of summer, nor the charms of song,
That with May's gentle smiles so well agree.
But he, made perfect in his birth-day cloud,
Starts into sudden life with scarce a sound,
And with a tender footstep prints the ground,
As though to cheat man's ear: yet, while he stays, He seems as 'twere to prompt our merriest days, And bid the dance and joke be long and loud.