The Newtown bee., 1900-04-13
THE SENTIMENTAL CALEaDAR.

l [FRoM THE BELFAST (IRE) NEWS. l January. | Beneath these wreaths Ot virgin snows The buds Of spring unseen repose, ! Awaiting buta warmer breath I To wake them from their seeming death; l So hidden, where no eye can see, Under thy maiden modestv, Young thoughts of love begin to form, To quicken when the skies grow warm,- o would were the laggard sun. How soon were that sweet work begun! February. Now oft, thro' cold winds sweeping by, hear & half relenttng sigh, Where snowdrops tremble in the shade l 9t their own sweetness, half afraid; Or crocus blooms have just begun To feel the passion of the sun. | O happy were mine eyes to see Such signs Of deepening love in thee o happy were mine ears to hear l Such sighs ot trembling hope and feari ! March. | The sun withdraws his genial beams, The clouds are lit with angry gleams; | There is 8 roaring in the woods As of & myriad waterfoods; | A black frost binds, with iron bands, l The promise ot the meadowlands; And broken wither'ds brown and sere, 1 Are all the nuralings of the year. l An, me that 1ove's first spring of bliss, Should meet so rude 8 world as thisI April. | The storms are o'er. the sun appears, The skies are wreath'd in smiles and tears, 1 With such soft shadows overcast ] AS only tell ot sorrows past. Tow wooes the sun with such sweet stress All nature yields to his caress, l And thro' each opening leaf and flower Reveals the rapture of the hour While mother earth thus pleads for me, Unyielding, love, thou wilt not be! May. Sing little birds, on every spray. For all the thorns are white with May; And somewhere in the scented shade Your loves trysting place have made. Sing, little birds, know your glee, For now my love is kind to me; And every thorn doth bear its flower, And every gloom hath still it's bower. And all hte's rugged ways are sweet With postes tor my passing feet
 June. Now is the world surpassing fair, Yet, with my love will not compare. The red rose, where the wild bee sips, Is not as red as her ripe lips; The white rose, on it's leaty bough, Is not as white as her smooth brow; The tender blue of Summer skies Is not as deep as her true eyes; No voice in all the woodland stirs The pulses ot my heart like hersi
 July. Blest season of divine content, Of hope. with sweet fruttion blent; The sunburnt hours, o'ercome with mirth At nuptia1s of the sun and earth, Now drowse, beside theIsoothing wave. In silent wood, or moss. grown cave, Their g2rlRnds, in bright disarray, Dropt needless by each woodland way; So fling loves conceits aside, My heart at rest and satisfied
 August. This is the month, which all m sn bless, Of mellow suns and fruitfulness. Come forth, my love into the fields, And see how bounteous nature yields Her golden harvest crowned with flowers, While in her order'd garden bowers, Her fragrant fruits take goodly shape Otapple red or purple grape: Fen so our welded lite shall prove Fruitful in noble deeds Of love. September. Now forth into the autumn lands, The reapers go in joyful bands And fast before their sickles keen, The ripe corn falls with f1ow'rs between. The flowers soon wither in the heat, But riper grows the stricken wheat; Fen so the Reaper shall but prove The strength of our enduring love; It's passion-fowers may soon decay, But love, true love, abides for aye.
 October. The year hath signs of growing old In woods that turn to brown and gold, More lovely, in this pensiye light, Than In the sommer's g fervent night; As In my eyes thou art moro fair Than when the sun was in thine hair. His woodland haunt the song bird leaves To shelter near the cottage eaves. And my fone heart. where'er 1t rove. come home with songs, to thee, my love.
 November. The light fs waning in the skies, A mist along the valley lies,I And sadly. 'gasnst the window pane, hear the plashing of the rain. Now. stir the fire into glow, The fires of age are burning low, And life hath grown so old and gray 1t seems the closing of the day 20, love, against the outward chill, Wen keep the old fire burning still
 nscsmbsr. Eows OCT the pale horizons rim, The low sun circles wan and dim;