So now, then, Summer 's over -- by degrees. Hark! 't is the wind in you red region grieves. Who says the world grows better, growing old? See! what poor trumpery on those pauper trees, That cannot keep, for all their fine gold leaves, Their last bird from the cold. This is Dame Nature, puckered, pinched, and sour, Of all the charms her poets praised, bereft, Scowling and scolding (only hear her, there!) Like that old spiteful Queen, in her last hour, Whom Spenser, Shakespeare, sung to...nothing left But wrinkles and red hair! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE SUN GOD by AUBREY THOMAS DE VERE MENAPHON: SEPHESTIA'S [CRADLE] SONG TO HER CHILD by ROBERT GREENE ECHOES: 35. MARGARITAE SORORI by WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY WIDOW MALONE by CHARLES JAMES LEVER BY BLUE ONTARIO'S SHORE by WALT WHITMAN GROWING OLD by KARLE WILSON BAKER |