The lord and lover of the year is slain,
Fair Summer! Nature’s joy and earth’s sweet pride.
The wind mourns sadly as a mournful bride
Loading the air with monodies of pain;
Down from the branches rustle, light as rain,
The rarely-coloured leaves; afar and wide
Blight-stricken blossoms strew the country-side,
No more to deck it with delight again;
The bright winged choristers that carolled round
Sweet overflowings of supernal joy,
No more their thrilling ecstasies employ
To glad man’s soul with music’s purest sound;
Summer lies dead upon the lap of earth,
Pale melancholy weeps where late laughed mirth.