A DEAD SUMMER.
What lacks the summer?
Not roses blowing,
Nor tall white lilies with fragrance rife,
Nor green things gay with the bliss of growing,
Nor glad things drunk with the wine of life,
Nor flushing of clouds in blue skies shining,
Nor soft wind murmurs to rise and fall,
Nor birds for singing, nor vines for twining,—
Three little buds I miss, no more,
That blossomed last year at my garden door,—
And that is all.
Not roses blowing,
Nor tall white lilies with fragrance rife,
Nor green things gay with the bliss of growing,
Nor glad things drunk with the wine of life,
Nor flushing of clouds in blue skies shining,
Nor soft wind murmurs to rise and fall,
Nor birds for singing, nor vines for twining,—
Three little buds I miss, no more,
That blossomed last year at my garden door,—
And that is all.
What lacks the summer?
Not waves a-quiver
With arrows of light from the hand of dawn,
Nor drooping of boughs by the dimpling river,
Nor nodding of grass on the windy lawn,
Nor tides upswept upon silver beaches,
Nor rustle of leaves on tree-tops tall,
Nor dapple of shade in woodland reaches,—
Not waves a-quiver
With arrows of light from the hand of dawn,
Nor drooping of boughs by the dimpling river,
Nor nodding of grass on the windy lawn,
Nor tides upswept upon silver beaches,
Nor rustle of leaves on tree-tops tall,
Nor dapple of shade in woodland reaches,—
