Summer is done, ’tis autumn now,
God’s harvest-time; the sheaves among,
His angels raise the reaping-song,
And though we grieve, we would not stay
The shining sickles on their way.
She seemed so young, so young to die!
We question wearily and vain
What never answer shall make plain:
“Can it be this the good Lord meant
Which frustrates his benign intent?