Two friends share a chat about the seasons. One lays out the case for each—summer’s lazy rest, autumn’s abundance, winter’s cozy stories, spring’s fairness—and asks, essentially, which do you love best? The answer comes with a playful shrug toward the gods: we shouldn’t really question what they send, but since you asked… Summer is too scorching, autumn brings sickness, and winter’s ice is just hateful. None of them win him over.
Then his tone softens into something almost dreamy. Spring, he says, is “thrice welcome,” and you can feel the relief in his voice. It’s a season without extremes, where the days feel like the best, most love-soaked daydreams and the nights mirror those golden hours. The closing image—heaven smiling down on earth, and earth smiling back up—wraps the poem in a mood of quiet harmony. There’s a gentle, reverent joy here, a sense that spring’s mildness is a gift worth celebrating, while the grumbles about the other seasons are mostly affectionate teasing.