“When Summer Dies.”
When Summer dies, the leaves are falling fast
In fitful eddies on the chilly blast,
And fields lie blank upon the bare hillside
Where erst the poppy flaunted in its pride,
And woodbine on the breeze its fragrance cast.
And where the hawthorn scattered far and wide
Its creamy petals in the sweet Springtide
Red berries hang, for birds a glad repast
When summer dies.
Gone are the cowslips and the daisies pied;
The swallow to a warmer clime hath hied;
The beech has shed its store of bitter mast,
And days are drear and skies are overcast,
But Love will warm our hearts whate’er betide
When summer dies.
Arthur G. Wright.