A Dirge for Summer

Summer dieth: — o'er his bier
Chant a requiem low and clear!
Chant it for his dying flowers,
Chant it for his flying hours.
Let them wither all together
Now the world is past the prime
Of the golden olden-time.

Let them die, and dying Summer
Yield his kingdom to the comer
From the islands of the West:
He is weary, let him rest!
And let mellow Autumn's yellow
Fall upon the leafy prime
Of the golden olden-time.

Go, ye days, your deeds are done!
Be yon clouds about the sun
Your imperial winding-sheet;
Let the night winds as they fleet
Tell the story of the glory
Of the free great-hearted prime
Of the golden olden-time.