  Day fades with fading colours from the sky, And blue smoke blowing where the hills are gold, Is all a tale of loveliness gone by: Summer is ended, and the year is old, Beauty and bloom are wet leaves in the grass, And music is a lone wind on the hill, Crying that all things beautiful must pass, Crying that beauty is remembered still. There will be wood-mist moving by the gate, There will be gathering to the fire by night, The greying ashes falling in the grate,— And long remembering, in the failing light, Of ghosts returning for a wisp of fame, Cloudy and brief along the smoke and flame. |
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