  O Summer! thy regal splendor Hath borne the spring-time away; Thy proud and passionate wooing Hath won thee a bride to-day. Her sweet smiles and tears and sunshine, Her glory of flowers and streams Are gone, and alone I ponder O’er vain, delusive dreams. Her beautiful, tender presence Is lost in thy eager embrace; Thou kissest the dewy fragrance From her lovely, lovely face. And I, who was near unto her, Have lost my all to-day— The chill of the grave is on me, My sky is cold and gray. I stand without the cold portals, And through my frozen tears I mark the bliss that e’er crowns you. My own poor broken years Lie dark in a land that never Will bloom with fruit or flowers; Chill is the bleak wind that sweepeth My desolate, haunted bowers. And thou, with thy priceless treasures, In the land of love and song, Amid full voluptuous pleasures, Thy years glide proudly on. Alone, with my vast surroundings, Shunned is my weird abode; An outcast, with but the bitter; Forsaken by all—but God. |
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