IMMORTAL HOPE
| Summer hath too
short a date Autumn enters, ah! how soon, Scattering with scornful hate All the flowers of June. Nay say not so, Nothing here below But dies To rise Anew with rarer glow. Now, no skylarks singing soar Sunward, now, beneath the moon Love's own nightingale no more Lifts her magic tune! Nay, say not so, But awhile they go; Their strain Again All heaven shall overflow. |