Summer is dead and earthed, and o'er her grave
Dark clouds pass slow and shadowy, shedding tears
That beauty should be born for death, and have
So short a term of days that should be years.
No voice is heard but murmurs of despair:—
The wild winds through her flowerless bowers rave;
Her sister, Autumn, rends her yellow hair,
And weeps the more that tears were vain to save;
The sorrowful Robin sings her requiem,
And strews her hearse with all his favorite leaves;
The sprightly Lark somewhere in silence grieves,
And will not chaunt his wonted matin-hymn;
And Nature, her proud mother, mourns her child
With that deep, voiceless grief, which is not soon beguiled.