The Spring-time, O the Spring-time! 
Who does not know it well? 
When the little birds begin to build, 
And the buds begin to swell. 
When the sun with the clouds plays hide-and-seek, 
And the lambs are bucking and bleating, 
And the colour mounts to the maiden's cheek, 
And the cuckoo scatters greeting; 
In the Spring-time, joyous Spring-time! 

The Summer, O the Summer! 
Who does not know it well? 
When the ringdoves coo the long day through, 
And the bee refills his cell. 
When the swish of the mower is heard at morn, 
And we all in the woods go roaming, 
And waiting is over, and love is born, 
And shy lips meet in the gloaming; 
In the Summer, ripening Summer! 

The Autumn, O the Autumn! 
Who does not know it well? 
When the leaf turns brown, and the mast drops down, 
And the chestnut splits its shell. 
When we muse o'er the days that have gone before, 
And the days that will follow after, 
When the grain lies deep on the winnowing-floor, 
And the plump gourd hangs from the rafter; 
In the Autumn, thoughtful Autumn! 

The Winter, O the Winter! 
Who does not know it well? 
When, day after day, the fields stretch gray, 
And the peewit wails on the fell. 
When we close up the crannies and shut out the cold, 
And the wind sounds hoarse and hollow, 
And our dead loves sleep in the churchyard mould, 
And we feel that we soon shall follow; 
In the Winter, mournful Winter! 

The placid Pug that paces in the Park,
Harnessed in silk and led by leathern lead,
Lives his dull life, and recks not of the Shark
In distant waters. Lapped in sloth and greed,
He fails in strenuous life to make a mark,
The placid Pug that paces in the park.

Round the slow circle of his nights and days
His life revolves in calm monotony.
Not unsusceptible to casual praise,
And mildly moved by the approach of "tea,"
No forked and jagged lightning leaps and plays
Round the slow circle of his nights and days.

He scarcely turns his round protuberant eyes,
To mark the mood of animals or men.
His joy is limited to mild surmise
When a new biscuit swims into his ken.
And when athwart his gaze a Rabbit flies,
He scarcely turns his round protuberant eyes.

And all the while the Shark in Southern seas
Pursues the paths of his pulsating quest,
Though the thermometer at fierce degrees
Might well admonish him to take a rest,
The Pug at home snores in ignoble ease.
(And all the while the Shark in Southern seas!)

If Pugs like Sharks were brought up in the sea
And forced to swim long miles to find their food,
Tutored to front the Hake's hostility,
And beard the Lobster in his dangerous mood,
Would not their lives more sane, more useful be,
If Pugs like Sharks were brought up in the sea?

The placid Pug still paces in the park,
Untouched by thoughts of all that might have been.
Undreaming that he might have "steered his bark"
Through many a stirring sight and stormy scene.
But being born a Pug and not a Shark
The placid Pug still paces in the park.