Summer Is Ended.

To think that this meaningless thing was ever a rose Scentless, colorless, this! Will it ever be thus (who knows?) Thus with our bliss, If we wait till the close?

Though we care not to wait for the end, there comes the end Sooner, later, at last, Which nothing can mar, nothing mend: An end locked fast, Bent we cannot re-bend.

PASSING AND GLASSING.

All things that pass Are woman's looking-glass; They show her how her bloom must fade, And she herself be laid With withered roses in the shade; With withered roses and the fallen peach, Unlovely, out of reach Of summer joy that was.

All things that pass Are woman's tiring-glass; The faded lavender is sweet, Sweet the dead violet Culled and laid by and cared for yet; The dried-up violets and dried lavender Still sweet, may comfort her, Nor need she cry Alas!

All things that pass Are wisdom's looking-glass; Being full of hope and fear, and still Brimful of good or ill, According to our work and will; For there is nothing new beneath the sun; Our doings have been done, And that which shall be was.