For lovely Summer hath cut short her stay—
The fickle goddess, loaded with delight,
Grown wantonly unconstant, fled away
Under a hoar-frost mantle yesternight.
In one brief hour, the warm and flashing skies
Pale in the marble dawn; we cannot choose,
But marvel that hearts turn to stone, and eyes
Brimful of passion all their lustre lose.
Drear is the morning; love is gone for aye,
Love done to death in one bright peerless day.