O light and laughing summer! fare thee well:
No song the less through thy rich woods will swell,
For one, one broken heart.
“And fare ye well, young flowers!
Ye will not mourn! ye will shed odour still,
And wave in glory, colouring every rill,
Known to my youth’s fresh hours.
“And ye, bright founts! that lie
Far in the whispering forests, lone and deep,
My wing no more shall stir your shadowy sleep—