Ah, Summer! now thy wayward race is run,
With soft, appeasing smiles thou com'st, like one
Who keeps a pageant waiting all the day,
Till half the guests and all the joy is gone,
And hearts are heavy that awoke so gay.
What though the faithful trees, still gladly green,
Show fretted depths of blue their boughs between,
Though placid sunlight sleeps upon the lawn,
It only tells us of what might have been