Summer hath too short a date
Autumn enters, ah! how soon,
Scattering with scornful hate
All the flowers of June.
Nay say not so,
Nothing here below
But dies
To rise
Anew with rarer glow.
Now, no skylarks singing soar
Sunward, now, beneath the moon
Love's own nightingale no more
Lifts her magic tune!
Nay, say not so,
But awhile they go;
Their strain
Again
All heaven shall overflow.