In January dread the ice Of a question far too nice. In February shun the blow Of an answer chill as snow. In March avoid the wind Where hopeful thoughts are thinned. In April shield the head Against the unstirring dead (Who yet will wake in May, The wag-beard prophets say). But May awaited brings The death of queens and kings, And June with fattened leaves Still palters, still deceives. July with bitter heat Blazes the seventh defeat. August in every land Comes with a barren hand, Till all September's reaping Is hardly fit for keeping, And fruits in keen October Fall wormy and sober. In November dread the end; One month will yet offend, And at last in December There'll be nothing to remember. |