Summer is a dying
In her autumnal swoon,
Lapp'd in vapours, lying
Cold and virginal
As the white midwinter moon.

Rough-tongued winds outcrying
A lamentable tune,
Set the dead leaves flying
Till a drifted pall
Hides the perished limbs of June.

Only lorn woods sighing
Her deaf ears importùne;
Little birds come prying
Where she lies, but all
Have done their singing time too soon.