 | The Shepherd's Garden |  |
106
THE DEATH OF SUMMER.
Hark! through the woods the wind doth wail:
Fair Summer he is dead.
Stick his couch with the poplar pale,
Ere all its plumes be shed;
With withered leaves bestrew his pall—
Those tears the mourning woods let fall.
Fair Summer he is dead.
Stick his couch with the poplar pale,
Ere all its plumes be shed;
With withered leaves bestrew his pall—
Those tears the mourning woods let fall.
Now let sweet robin softly sing,
From a bare branch alone,
His doleful song at evening,
When winds have ceased to moan.
Summer is dead: alas! he lies
Stretched on the ground with curtained eyes.
From a bare branch alone,
His doleful song at evening,
When winds have ceased to moan.
Summer is dead: alas! he lies
Stretched on the ground with curtained eyes.
Sad rivers sobbing onward go,
Cold brooks their course do urge,
Brimming their wasted banks with woe
To sing sweet Summer's dirge.
Summer is dead: he lies, alas!
Stretched out upon the meadow's grass.
Cold brooks their course do urge,
Brimming their wasted banks with woe
To sing sweet Summer's dirge.
Summer is dead: he lies, alas!
Stretched out upon the meadow's grass.
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