 | Poems by Rose Terry |  |
182
“THE HARVEST IS PAST.”
Go, dead Summer, o'er the seas away;
Autumn at her vespers now will kneel and pray,
Sunlit vapors on the mountains stray,
Red grows the round moon,—Summer goes away.
Autumn at her vespers now will kneel and pray,
Sunlit vapors on the mountains stray,
Red grows the round moon,—Summer goes away.
Go, dead Summer! the birds will care,
They will follow on the soft sea-air,
While the south-wind breathes a low prayer,
And the perfumed pine-leaves thy shroud prepare.
They will follow on the soft sea-air,
While the south-wind breathes a low prayer,
And the perfumed pine-leaves thy shroud prepare.
Go, dead Summer! go, to come again.
All things rise but madness and pain.
New green grasses flicker on the plain,
Only a lost life comes not again.
All things rise but madness and pain.
New green grasses flicker on the plain,
Only a lost life comes not again.
One dead Summer never shall return.
In its ashes no red embers burn.
Over it vainly the tired soul may yearn.
It is dead, wept, buried: how can it return?
In its ashes no red embers burn.
Over it vainly the tired soul may yearn.
It is dead, wept, buried: how can it return?
| Poems by Rose Terry | |