Page:Poems Rossetti.djvu/149

So fails the summer
 With warm, delicious breath;
And what hath autumn
 To give us in its place?

Draw close the curtains
 Of branched evergreen;
Change cannot touch them
 With fading fingers sere:
Here the first violets
 Perhaps will bud unseen,
And a dove, may be,
 Return to nestle here.

AN END.

LOVE, strong as Death, is dead,
Come, let us make his bed
Among the dying flowers:
A green turf at his head;
And a stone at his feet,
Whereon we may sit
In the quiet evening hours.

He was born in the spring,
And died before the harvesting:
On the last warm summer day
He left us; he would not stay