Summer is Dead

Summer is dead. Shall we weep or laugh, As we gaze on the dead queen’s epitaph Which Autumn has written in letters of gold: “She was bright and beautiful, blithe and young, And through grove and meadow she gaily sung, As with careless footsteps she danced along To the grave, where she now lies cold?”

Shall we weep that her beauty from earth has gone? Shall we weep for the friends that with her have flown? Shall we weep for those that with her have died? For the man that has perished in manhood’s pride? For the maiden that never can be a bride? For the hearts that are left alone?

Shall we laugh as we stand at earth’s palace-door, With the faded crown that poor Summer wore, And placing it on her sister’s brow, Forget the face that once smiled beneath That faded crown, and the flowery breath That parted those lips now cold in death? For Autumn is monarch now.

Summer is dead. Shall we laugh or weep? Is she really dead or only asleep With her sleeping garments on? She only sleeps, and in meadow and grove Again in gay dances her steps shall move; But shall she come back with the friends we love? God knows, and His will be done.