But summer dieth, loving sung to sleep
By western wind and murmur of the deep,
The softened sunshine on her gently shed.
Where are our roses?—that rare gift of June
That filled to perfectness our human life,
That hushed with silent touch all earthly strife,
That voiceless sang to keep our hearts in tune.
Lo! crowning each rich, sun-browned stem
Where once its rose the summer’s sunrise flushed,
Where shone our coronal of joy, now crushed,