Prophet of Nature, read for me the seasons,
And tell us what the gods have now in store.
Thou hast voice to make the storms turn back,
The dark clouds’ complaint killed by thy reason.
Ah, Groundhog! How thy day afflicts me so!
Morning of hope turned twilight of woe,
When thou permit’st Demeter’s rage to grow.
Yet why should I fear six weeks more,
On a day when one turns two and two turns four.
Should I not joy as scholars past,
And drain the grapes of the ichor they store?
Oh Groundhog, fear not that the light I cast
On thy wisdom might invoke what thou lov’st least —
Thy cursed shadow that makes the winter last —
For though man only may enjoy this feast,
Thou teach’st to enjoy nature as a beast.