RONDEL.
Oh, say not ye that summer's over
When birds within the wood stop singing!
While hands still touch in desperate clinging,
Some ghost of hope in hearts must hover;
Though died the dream of loved and lover,
While yet the marriage bells were ringing.
Oh, say not ye that summer's over
When birds within the wood stop singing!
Their vanished hopes may none recover
In some new day, new morrow bringing?
And shall we see no buds fresh springing
Upon the stalks of last year's clover?
Oh, say not ye that summer's over
When birds within the wood stop singing!
May Probyn.