The Breath Of Slowly Poem by Philip Henry Savage

The breath of slowly-moving spring
Stirs the light leaf, the doubtful wing,
And tempers each created thing.

The tumult of the summer's life
Surrounds the earth and, rich and rife,
Finds outlet in a world of strife.

The autumn season stills the plain,
Quiets the river, sifts the grain,
And looks to rest and sleep again.

In winter does great nature rest
Or die, dismissing every guest
And closing up the broad earth's breast.