The Summer Is Ended

Wreathe no more lilies in my hair,
For I am dying, Sister sweet:
Or, if you will for the last time

Indeed, why make me fair
Once for my winding-sheet.
Pluck no more roses for my breast,
For I like them fade in my prime:
Or, if you will, why pluck them still,
That they may share my rest
Once more for the last time.

Weep not for me when I am gone,
Dear tender one, but hope and smile:
Or, if you cannot choose but weep,
A little while weep on.
Only a little while.