I mark the Summer's swift decline The springing sward its grave clothes weaves Whose rustling woods the gales confine The aged year turns on its couch of leaves. O could I catch the sounds remote Could I but tell to human ear The strains which on the breezes float And sing the requiem of the dying year. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE BRACELET: TO JULIA by ROBERT HERRICK A LETTER FROM A GIRL TO HER OWN OLD AGE by ALICE MEYNELL TO MADAME DE SEVIGNE by MATHIEU DE MONTREUIL A CAUTION TO POETS by MATTHEW ARNOLD THE REEDS by KONSTANTIN DMITRIYEVICH BALMONT VOLATUS TRIUMPHANS by LUCIUS MORRIS BEEBE |