"Summer is coming, and I cannot stay;
Two of my children have crept from my bosom:
April has left me but lingering May.
"What tho' bright Summer is crownèd with roses.
Deep in the forest Arbutus doth hide;
I am the herald of all the rejoicing;
Why must June always disown me?" she cried.
Down in the meadow she stoops to the daisies,
Plucks the first bloom from the apple-tree's bough:
"Autumn will rob me of all the sweet apples;