Where are the blooms of Summer? In the West,
Blushing their last to the last sunny hours,
When the mild Eve by sudden Night is prest,
Like tearful Proserpine, snatch’d from her flow’rs,
To a most gloomy breast.
Where is the pride of Summer—the green prime—
The merry, merry leaves all twinkling?—there
On the moss’d elm; there on the naked lime
Trembling—and one upon the old oak-tree!
Where is the Dryad’s immortality?
Gone into mournful cypress and dark yew,
Or wearing the long, gloomy Winter through
In the smooth holly’s green eternity.