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?