Of the stanch woodbine still is green,

And thickly set with milk-white blooms

Gold-anthered, breathing out perfumes;

The clematis on trellis bars

Still flaunts with white and purple stars;

No missing leaf has thinner made

The obelisks of maple shade;

Fresh beech boughs flutter in the breeze

Which, warm as summer, stirs the trees;

The sun is clear, the skies are blue:

But still a sadness filters through

The beauty and the bloom; and we,

Touched by some mournful prophecy,

Whisper each day: “Delay, delay!

Make not such haste to fly away!”

And they, with silent lips, reply:

“Summer is gone; we may not stay.

Roses may be as fragrant fair

As in the sweet June days they were;

No hint of frost may daunt as yet

The clustering brown mignonette,

Nor chilly wind forbid to ope

The odorous, fragile heliotrope;

The sun may be as warm as May,

The night forbear to chase the day,

And hushed in false security

All the sweet realm of Nature be:

But the South-loving birds have fled,

By their mysterious instinct led;

The butterflies their nests have spun,

And donned their silken shrouds each one;

The bees have hived them fast, while we

Whisper each day: “Delay, delay!

Make not such haste to fly away!”

And all, with pitying looks, reply:

“Summer is fled; we may not stay.

Summer is gone. Good-by! good-by!”