W E'LL not weep for summer over,—
—No, not we:
Strew above his head the clover,—
—Let him be!

Other eyes may weep his dying,
—Shed their tears
There upon him, where he's lying
—With his peers.

Unto some of them he proffered
—Gifts most sweet;
For our hearts a grave he offered,—
—Was this meet?

All our fond hopes, praying, perished
—In his wrath,—
All the lovely dreams we cherished
—Strewed his path.

Shall we in our tombs, I wonder,
—Far apart,
Sundered wide as seas can sunder
—Heart from heart,

Dream at all of all the sorrows
—That were ours,—
Bitter nights, more bitter morrows;
—Poison-flowers

Summer gathered, as in madness,
—Saying, “See,
These are yours, in place of gladness,—
—Gifts from me”?

Nay, the rest that will be ours
—Is supreme,—
And below the poppy flowers
—Steals no dream.