Poems (Craik)/Summer Gone

by Dinah Maria Craik

SUMMER GONE.

MALL wren, mute pecking at the last red plum   Or twittering idly at the yellowing boughs   Fruit-emptied, over thy forsaken house,—Birdie, that seems to come Telling, we too have spent our little store, Our summer 's o'er:

Poor robin, driven in by rain-storms wild   To lie submissive under household hands   With beating heart that no love understands, And scarèd eye, like a child Who only knows that he is all alone And summer 's gone;

Pale leaves, sent flying wide, a frightened flock   On which the wolfish wind bursts out, and tears   Those tender forms that lived in summer airs Till, taken at this shock, They, like weak hearts when sudden grief sweeps by, Whirl, drop, and die:—

All these things, earthy, of the earth—do tell   This earth's perpetual story; we belong   Unto another country, and our song Shall be no mortal knell; Though all the year's tale, as our years run fast, Mourns, "summer 's past."

O love immortal, perpetual youth,   Whether in budding nooks it sits and sings   As hundred poets in a hundred springs, Or, slaking passion's drouth, In wine-press of affliction, ever goes Heavenward, through woes:

O youth immortal—O undying love!   With these by winter fireside we 'll sit down   Wearing our snows of honor like a crown; And sing as in a grove, Where the full nests ring out with happy cheer, "Summer is here."

Roll round, strange years; swift seasons, come and go;   Ye leave upon us but an outward sign;   Ye cannot touch the inward and divine, While God alone does know; There sealed till summers, winters, all shall cease In His deep peace.

Therefore uprouse ye winds and howl your will;   Beat, beat, ye sobbing rains on pane and door;   Enter, slow-footed age, and thou, obscure, Grand Angel—not of ill; Healer of every wound, where'er thou come, Glad, we 'll go home.