summer is gone on swallows’ wings,

and earth has buried all her flowers:

no more the lark — the linnet — sings,

but silence sits in faded bowers.

there is a shadow on the plain

of winter ere he comes again —

there is in woods a solemn sound

of hollow warnings whisper’d round,

as echo in her deep recess

for once had turn’d a prophetess.

shuddering autumn stops to list,

and breathes his fear in sudden sighs,

with clouded face, and hazel eyes

that quench themselves, and hide in mist.

yes, summer’s gone like pageant bright;

its glorious days of golden light

are gone — the mimic suns that quiver,

then melt in time’s dark-flowing river.

gone the sweetly-scented breeze

that spoke in music to the trees;

gone — for damp and chilly breath,

as if fresh blown o’er marble seas,

or newly from the lungs of death.

gone its virgin roses’ blushes,

warm as when aurora rushes

freshly from the god’s embrace,

with all her shame upon her face.

old time hath laid them in the mould;

sure he is blind as well as old,

whose hand relentless never spares

young cheeks so beauty-bright as theirs!

gone are the flame-eyed lovers now

from where so blushing-blest they tarried

under the hawthorn’s blossom-bough,

gone; for day and night are married.

all the light of love is fled:—

alas! that negro breasts should hide

the lips that were so rosy red,

at morning and at even-tide!

delightful summer! then adieu

till thou shalt visit us anew:

but who without regretful sigh

can say, adieu, and see thee fly?

not he that e’er hath felt thy pow’r.

his joy expanding like a flow’r,

that cometh after rain and snow,

looks up at heaven, and learns to glow:—

not he that fled from babel-strife

to the green sabbath-land of life,

to dodge dull care ‘mid clustered trees,

and cool his forehead in the breeze —

whose spirit, weary-worn perchance,

shook from its wings a weight of grief,

and perch’d upon an aspen leaf,

for every breath to make it dance.

farewell! — on wings of sombre stain,

that blacken in the last blue skies,

thou fly’st; but thou wilt come again

on the gay wings of butterflies.

spring at thy approach will sprout

her new corinthian beauties out,

leaf-woven homes, where twitter-words

will grow to songs, and eggs to birds;

ambitious buds shall swell to flowers,

and april smiles to sunny hours,

bright days shall be, and gentle nights

full of soft breath and echo-lights,

as if the god of sun-time kept

his eyes half-open while he slept.

roses shall be where roses were,

not shadows, but reality;

as if they never perished there,

but slept in immortality:

nature shall thrill with new delight,

and time’s relumined river run

warm as young blood, and dazzling bright,

as if its source were in the sun!

but say, hath winter then no charms?

is there no joy, no gladness warms

his aged heart? no happy wiles

to cheat the hoary one to smiles?

onward he comes — the cruel north

pours his furious whirlwind forth

before him — and we breathe the breath

of famish’d bears that howl to death.

onward he comes from the rocks that blanch

o’er solid streams that never flow:

his tears all ice, his locks all snow,

just crept from some huge avalanche —

a thing half-breathing and half-warm,

as if one spark began to glow

within some statue’s marble form,

or pilgrim stiffened in the storm.

oh! will not mirth’s light arrows fail

to pierce that frozen coat of mail?

oh! will not joy but strive in vain

to light up those glazed eyes again?

no! take him in, and blaze the oak,

and pour the wine, and warm the ale;

his sides shall shake to many a joke,

his tongue shall thaw in many a tale,

his eyes grow bright, his heart be gay,

and even his palsy charm’d away.

what heeds he then the boisterous shout

of angry winds that scowl without,

like shrewish wives at tavern door?

what heeds he then the wild uproar

of billows bursting on the shore?

in dashing waves, in howling breeze,

there is a music that can charm him;

when safe, and sheltered, and at ease,

he hears the storm that cannot harm him.

but hark! those shouts! that sudden din

of little hearts that laugh within.

oh! take him where the youngsters play,

and he will grow as young as they!

they come! they come! each blue-eyed sport,

the twelfth-night king and all his court —

’tis mirth fresh crown’d with misletoe!

music with her merry fiddles,

joy “on light fantastic toe,”

wit with all his jests and riddles,

singing and dancing as they go.

and love, young love, among the rest,

a welcome — nor unbidden guest.

but still for summer dost thou grieve?

then read our poets — they shall weave

a garden of green fancies still,

where thy wish may rove at will.

they have kept for after-treats

the essences of summer sweets,

and echoes of its songs that wind

in endless music through the mind:

they have stamp’d in visible traces

the “thoughts that breathe,” in words that shine —

the flights of soul in sunny places —

to greet and company with thine.

these shall wing thee on to flow’rs —

the past or future, that shall seem

all the brighter in thy dream

for blowing in such desert hours.

the summer never shines so bright

as thought-of in a winter’s night;

and the sweetest loveliest rose

is in the bud before it blows;

the dear one of the lover’s heart

is painted to his longing eyes,

in charms she ne’er can realize —

but when she turns again to part.

dream thou then, and bind thy brow

with wreath of fancy roses now,

and drink of summer in the cup

where the muse hath mix’d it up;

the “dance, and song, and sun-burnt mirth,”

with the warm nectar of the earth:

drink! ’twill glow in every vein,

and thou shalt dream the winter through:

then waken to the sun again,

and find thy summer vision true!