Oh! golden, golden summer,
What is it thou hast done?
Thou hast chased each vernal roamer
With thy fiercely burning sun.
Glad was the cuckoo’s hail;
Where may we hear it now?
Thou hast driven the nightingale
From the waving hawthorn bough.
Thou hast shrunk the mighty river;
Thou hast made the small brook flee;
And the light gales faintly quiver
In the dark and shadowy tree.
Spring waked her tribes to bloom,
And on the green sward dance.
Thou hast smitten them to the tomb
With thy consuming glance.
And now Autumn cometh on,
Singing ’midst shocks of corn,
Thou hastenest to be gone,
As if joy might not be borne.