Brothers are we, year out, year in,
Through out the country straying,
But each one by himself appears,
To us rich gifts conveying.

The first, he comes with joyous mien,
Arrayed in purest attire,
And strews o’er mountain, lea and plain
The flowers rich as fire.

More earnest comes the second in,
With grateful sunshine and cheer;
Strawberries sweet in his warm hand,
Ripe fruits, and yellow and red.

The third then draws near with serious hand
Which fills the barn and storehouse wide,
And brings unto pleasure and delight
And autumn’s golden tide.

At the close comes winter wide,
Wrapt in gloom and horror near;
In frost and snow he binds the field and meadow bare,
Which his white snow-flakes cover.

Who are the wondrous brothers four,
That one another thus succeed?
The seasons then, ye naught could guess:
The year’s fourfold indeed.