SUMMER dieth: -- o'er his bier Chant a requiem low and clear! Chant it for his dying flowers, Chant it for his flying hours. Let them wither all together Now the world is past the prime Of the golden olden-time. Let them die, and dying Summer Yield his kingdom to the comer From the islands of the West: He is weary, let him rest! And let mellow Autumn's yellow Fall upon the leafy prime Of the golden olden-time. Go, ye days, your deeds are done! Be yon clouds about the sun Your imperial winding-sheet; Let the night winds as they fleet Tell the story of the glory Of the free great-hearted prime Of the golden olden-time. |