THE PASSING OF SUMMER
"SUMMER is dead!"—it was the wind that spakeIn the bronze mantle of the sombre pine—"The sumach bush unfurls a scarlet sign;The sere rush signals it in stream and lake;Soundeth a requiem in gilded brake,Where mateless birds a lonely fate repine;The sky is veiled in tears; each gray confineBespeaks the shrunken branch the leaves forsake."I laugh with ruddy Autumn in the morn;I sound his praises in the golden light;But when high noon has passed and raven nightComes rushing down, I wail with those forlorn:The dying leaves, the lone flowers, pale and torn,The multitudes confronting death or flight."
"SUMMER is dead!"—it was the wind that spakeIn the bronze mantle of the sombre pine—"The sumach bush unfurls a scarlet sign;The sere rush signals it in stream and lake;Soundeth a requiem in gilded brake,Where mateless birds a lonely fate repine;The sky is veiled in tears; each gray confineBespeaks the shrunken branch the leaves forsake."I laugh with ruddy Autumn in the morn;I sound his praises in the golden light;But when high noon has passed and raven nightComes rushing down, I wail with those forlorn:The dying leaves, the lone flowers, pale and torn,The multitudes confronting death or flight."
"SUMMER is dead!"—it was the wind that spakeIn the bronze mantle of the sombre pine—"The sumach bush unfurls a scarlet sign;The sere rush signals it in stream and lake;Soundeth a requiem in gilded brake,Where mateless birds a lonely fate repine;The sky is veiled in tears; each gray confineBespeaks the shrunken branch the leaves forsake.
"SUMMER is dead!"—it was the wind that spake
In the bronze mantle of the sombre pine—
"The sumach bush unfurls a scarlet sign;
The sere rush signals it in stream and lake;
Soundeth a requiem in gilded brake,
Where mateless birds a lonely fate repine;
The sky is veiled in tears; each gray confine
Bespeaks the shrunken branch the leaves forsake.
"I laugh with ruddy Autumn in the morn;I sound his praises in the golden light;But when high noon has passed and raven nightComes rushing down, I wail with those forlorn:The dying leaves, the lone flowers, pale and torn,The multitudes confronting death or flight."
"I laugh with ruddy Autumn in the morn;
I sound his praises in the golden light;
But when high noon has passed and raven night
Comes rushing down, I wail with those forlorn:
The dying leaves, the lone flowers, pale and torn,
The multitudes confronting death or flight."