Aarets Børn
Tolv Sønner Aaret har; pas paa,
Saa skal I deres Skudsmaal faae.
Den første Søn er Januar,
Stor Trang til Vintertøi han har.
Hans Broder, Februar ved Navn,
„Slaaer Katten af” hver Fastelavn.
Men Marts det er et lille Smøl,
Han vælter sig i Regn og Søl.
En evig Feber har April,
Han skjærer Ansigt, det er Smiil.
Men Mai, hans Rygte det er godt,
I Smug han lastes dog saa smaat.
Høit raaber Juni: „Godtfolk kom,
Kjør med i Skoven, see Jer om!”
Og Juli — tidt han gjør lidt vaadt,
Men af den Regn har Jorden godt.
August fortæller: „her er smukt!
I Gangen strutter det med Frugt.”
September har en Farvepot,
Han maler baade Stort og Smaat.
October er i slet Humeur
Fordi den gamle Sommer døer.
November blæser Storm-Trompet,
Jeg troer den Karl har aldrig leet!
December fra sit Vinter-Skjul
Tilraaber os: „Kom med, leg Juul!
The Year’s Children
Twelve sons the year has; listen well,
And of their natures I will tell.
Now, January is the first,
His need of winter clothes is worst.
Then February comes along,
He keeps the Lent traditions strong.
March though is something of a dud,
A wallower in rain and mud.
April’s unending fever’s vile,
He grimaces – that’s just his smile.
May’s reputation’s fighting fit,
Though on the quiet he’s blamed a bit.
June shouts out loud: ‘Good folk, let’s go,
The woods are waiting, don’t be slow!’
July’s quick showers can be a pain,
The soil though thrives on summer rain.
August exclaims: ‘It’s lovely here!
With fruit maturing far and near.’
September’s palette’s oh so bright,
He splashes great and small with light.
October’s mood’s distinctly glum,
Since summer’s life is nearly done.
November trumpets out a gale,
He’s never laughed, can only wail!
December from his hideaway
Calls out: ‘It’s time for Christmas play!’
Compare with Andersen's prose tale about the months 'Twelve by Mail Coach' here
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