The spring-time dream must pass away,
The summer comes so soon;
And now the languid; lovely May
Leans on the heart of June.

Half-buried is her sunny head
In that broad, teeming breast;
As one who dies, yet is not dead,
She smiles in conscious rest.

Long-lingering in the fields to glean
The souls of faded flowers,
And whispering in each woodland green
The memories of past hours, —

Slow-stealing on soft-rustling wings,
With many a tender sigh,
The west-wind spirit comes, and brings
Her summons from the sky.

The color fades not from her cheek
Which feels his fragrant breath,
Nor does she weep to hear him speak
The words that tell of death.

That wavering song! — ah, well she knows
The robin's trembling note!
She turns to kiss the full-blown rose
That June wears aTher throat.

She smiles farewell to slope and dell
And river's dimpled sheen,
And from the fields that loved her well
She wanders forth unseen.

The mountain pinks began to pine,
And, where her footsteps wound,
The sweet blooms of the eglantine
Fell showering to the ground.

And yet — the blabbing Wind, since then,
Hath oft been heard to say,
'Twas love, not death, he whispered, when
He won the soul of May.