TTHE interlacing verdurous screenOf the stanch woodbine still is green,And thickly set with milk-white bloomsGold-anthered, breathing out perfumes;The clematis on trellis barsStill flaunts with white and purple stars;No missing leaf has thinner madeThe obelisks of maple shade;Fresh beech boughs flutter in the breezeWhich, warm as summer, stirs the trees;The sun is clear, the skies are blue:But still a sadness filters throughThe beauty and the bloom; and we,Touched by some mournful prophecy,Whisper each day: “Delay, delay!Make not such haste to fly away!”And they, with silent lips, reply:“Summer is gone; we may not stay.Summer is gone. Good-by! good-by!”Roses may be as fragrant fairAs in the sweet June days they were;No hint of frost may daunt as yetThe clustering brown mignonette,Nor chilly wind forbid to opeThe odorous, fragile heliotrope;The sun may be as warm as May,The night forbear to chase the day,And hushed in false securityAll the sweet realm of Nature be:But the South-loving birds have fled,By their mysterious instinct led;The butterflies their nests have spun,And donned their silken shrouds each one;The bees have hived them fast, while weWhisper each day: “Delay, delay!Make not such haste to fly away!”And all, with pitying looks, reply:“Summer is fled; we may not stay.Summer is gone. Good-by! good-by!”
TTHE interlacing verdurous screenOf the stanch woodbine still is green,And thickly set with milk-white bloomsGold-anthered, breathing out perfumes;The clematis on trellis barsStill flaunts with white and purple stars;No missing leaf has thinner madeThe obelisks of maple shade;Fresh beech boughs flutter in the breezeWhich, warm as summer, stirs the trees;The sun is clear, the skies are blue:But still a sadness filters throughThe beauty and the bloom; and we,Touched by some mournful prophecy,Whisper each day: “Delay, delay!Make not such haste to fly away!”And they, with silent lips, reply:“Summer is gone; we may not stay.Summer is gone. Good-by! good-by!”Roses may be as fragrant fairAs in the sweet June days they were;No hint of frost may daunt as yetThe clustering brown mignonette,Nor chilly wind forbid to opeThe odorous, fragile heliotrope;The sun may be as warm as May,The night forbear to chase the day,And hushed in false securityAll the sweet realm of Nature be:But the South-loving birds have fled,By their mysterious instinct led;The butterflies their nests have spun,And donned their silken shrouds each one;The bees have hived them fast, while weWhisper each day: “Delay, delay!Make not such haste to fly away!”And all, with pitying looks, reply:“Summer is fled; we may not stay.Summer is gone. Good-by! good-by!”
TTHE interlacing verdurous screenOf the stanch woodbine still is green,And thickly set with milk-white bloomsGold-anthered, breathing out perfumes;The clematis on trellis barsStill flaunts with white and purple stars;No missing leaf has thinner madeThe obelisks of maple shade;Fresh beech boughs flutter in the breezeWhich, warm as summer, stirs the trees;The sun is clear, the skies are blue:But still a sadness filters throughThe beauty and the bloom; and we,Touched by some mournful prophecy,Whisper each day: “Delay, delay!Make not such haste to fly away!”And they, with silent lips, reply:“Summer is gone; we may not stay.Summer is gone. Good-by! good-by!”Roses may be as fragrant fairAs in the sweet June days they were;No hint of frost may daunt as yetThe clustering brown mignonette,Nor chilly wind forbid to opeThe odorous, fragile heliotrope;The sun may be as warm as May,The night forbear to chase the day,And hushed in false securityAll the sweet realm of Nature be:But the South-loving birds have fled,By their mysterious instinct led;The butterflies their nests have spun,And donned their silken shrouds each one;The bees have hived them fast, while weWhisper each day: “Delay, delay!Make not such haste to fly away!”And all, with pitying looks, reply:“Summer is fled; we may not stay.Summer is gone. Good-by! good-by!”
T
THE interlacing verdurous screen
Of the stanch woodbine still is green,
And thickly set with milk-white blooms
Gold-anthered, breathing out perfumes;
The clematis on trellis bars
Still flaunts with white and purple stars;
No missing leaf has thinner made
The obelisks of maple shade;
Fresh beech boughs flutter in the breeze
Which, warm as summer, stirs the trees;
The sun is clear, the skies are blue:
But still a sadness filters through
The beauty and the bloom; and we,
Touched by some mournful prophecy,
Whisper each day: “Delay, delay!
Make not such haste to fly away!”
And they, with silent lips, reply:
“Summer is gone; we may not stay.
Summer is gone. Good-by! good-by!”
Roses may be as fragrant fair
As in the sweet June days they were;
No hint of frost may daunt as yet
The clustering brown mignonette,
Nor chilly wind forbid to ope
The odorous, fragile heliotrope;
The sun may be as warm as May,
The night forbear to chase the day,
And hushed in false security
All the sweet realm of Nature be:
But the South-loving birds have fled,
By their mysterious instinct led;
The butterflies their nests have spun,
And donned their silken shrouds each one;
The bees have hived them fast, while we
Whisper each day: “Delay, delay!
Make not such haste to fly away!”
And all, with pitying looks, reply:
“Summer is fled; we may not stay.
Summer is gone. Good-by! good-by!”