The Seasons Of The Mind More Fickle Are Poem by Emmanuel George Cefai

The seasons of the mind more fickle are
Than fickle women:
A summer comes – all founts dry
And the hill springs dwindle into the hard rock
Baked by the relentless sun
And autumn cooler is - but blank
Its star-crossed gaze into the universe
Looks in the azure heavens to read their eyes
And feel the breathing of their bosoms bare:
And winter - ah! winter too
With its cold icicles
And hidden owls in frosty trees all white
Dour winter too is blank and numbing:
But ah! when green Spring comes
The hillsides gush;
The flowers blush
Sweet the rivers glide
And in the night
The starry skies make love.
And the mind-the mind it teems!

How cannot it teem my friend?