Fresh beech boughs flutter in the breeze
Which, warm as summer, stirs the trees;
The sun is clear, the skies are blue:
But still a sadness filters through
The beauty and the bloom; and we,
Touched by some mournful prophecy,
Whisper each day: “Delay, delay!
Make not such haste to fly away!”
And they, with silent lips, reply:
“Summer is gone; we may not stay.