Summer’s Passing
A SINGLE branch of flaming red,
A branch of tawny yellow
And every branch in gorgeousness
A rival of its fellow;
Some russet brown and faded green
With golden shadows in between
And mist-hid sun to mellow.
An instinct as of music near—
A breath the wind is bringing,
Broken and sweet, as from a host
Of swift and solemn winging—
A mystery born of light and sound
Wrapping our trancéd progress round—
A sighing and a singing!
Thus in a certain lovely pomp
We leave the Summer lying—
These are her funeral banners, this
The pageantry of dying!
The music that we almost hear
Is wafted from her passing bier—
The singing and the sighing!