The summer sun has passed away,
Long since the wind went by the bay
And drew its arms across the sky
In some embrace---we wonder why.
Why does this life, with all its joy
Its budding green the leaves employ
Have to die now, when we were set
On dreams that now are cold and wet?
This funeral home of browning trees,
This hibernation of blooms and bees---
It is the murder of life and hope
That gave us once the calm to cope.
Autumn has changed the blowing weed,
Burnt black the fallen, wheaten seed,
And now there is thinness in the air
Where beauty once laid recumbent there.
If only we could take the final nut
And seal it, before the winter cut
We could see the sun in its shimmering skin
And know that summer will come again.