After Summer

We 'll not weep for summer over, —
No, not we;
Strew above his head the clover, —
Let him be!

Other eyes may weep his dying,
Shed their tears
There upon him, where he 's lying
With his peers.

Unto some of them he proffered
Gifts most sweet;
For our hearts a grave he offered, —
Was this meet?

All our fond hopes, praying, perished
In his wrath, —
All the lovely dreams we cherished
Strewed his path.

Shall we in our tombs, I wonder,
Far apart,
Sundered wide as seas can sunder
Heart from heart,

Dream at all of all the sorrows
That were ours, —
Bitter nights, more bluer morrows;
Poison-flowers

Summer gathered, as in madness.
Saying, " See,
These aie yours, in place of gladness.
Gifts from me?"

Nay, the rest that will be ours,
Is supreme, —
And below the poppy flowers
Steals no dream.