  She is not dead, but sleepeth. As the fair, Sweet queen, dear Summer, laid her sceptre down And lifted from her tirÈd brows her crown, And now lies lapped in slumber otherwhere— As she will rise again, when smiling May, Saying, "Thy day dawns," wakes her with a kiss, And butterflies break from the chrysalis And throng to welcome her upon her way, And roses laugh out into bloom for glee That Summer is awake again—so she Who sleeps, snow-still and white, will waken when The Day dawns—and will live for us again. Charles Prescott Shermon. |
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