On tawny hills in faded splendour drest.
Of rusty purple and of tarnished gold.
Now like some Eastern monarch sad and old,
The discrowned summer lieth down to rest!
A mournful mist hangs o'er the mellow plain.
O'er watery meads that slide down pine-clad heights.
And wine-red woods where song no more delights;
But only wounded birds cry out in pain.
A pallid glory lingers in the sky.
Faint scents of wilding flowers float in the air.
All nature's voices murmur in despair —
"Was summer crowned so late — so soon to die?"
But with a royal smile, she whispers, "Cease,
If life is joy and triumph, death is peace!"