 | The Poems of Sir William Watson |  |
THE FALSE SUMMER
The Summer that begrudged its honey,
And promised boons it never gave,
Now, in its lean, mean parsimony,
Departs unto its dirgeless grave.
And promised boons it never gave,
Now, in its lean, mean parsimony,
Departs unto its dirgeless grave.
106
Come, honest Winter! Thou at least
Wilt not thy lack of heart conceal,
Or bid me to a monarch's feast
To mock me with a beggar's meal.
Wilt not thy lack of heart conceal,
Or bid me to a monarch's feast
To mock me with a beggar's meal.
| The Poems of Sir William Watson | |