57676: The Dread Of Falling Into Naught

<p dir="ltr"> Now slows the beat of Summer's dancing pulse;<br> Her voice has weak and quaverous undertones;<br> Cold agues in her hectic limbs convulse;<br> Show palsies creep into her sapless bones.<br> Ah! is she falling into Death so soon, so soon?<br> Ev'n so! and now the peerless forest green<br> Is streaked with silvery pallor of decay.<br> As a beauteous woman's locks may lose their sheen<br> Through fearful dreams, and turn too early grey,<br> So Summer paleth now, and moaneth in her swoon.<br> The expressions of her once-rich mind, and flowers,<br> Are feeble-born, else rank unnaturally;<br> And whoso looks on leafy garden bowers,<br> Fresh bloodstains every misty morn may see,<br> Split from her veins by Winter's lance, and conflict-strewn.<br> My power of life, though youthful, also sinks;<br> Before my time I bear a hoary head;<br> And chill airs strike my brow, that blow, methinks,<br> Straight from the icy cavern of the dead.<br> Night darkens round; my day shall know no afternoon.<br> O never mourn, my brothers! well ye know<br> These crimson stains shall vanish from the trees;<br> Washed by the precious ointment of the snow.<br> A little while, and drowsy Earth's disease,<br> Shall feel the healing quickness of another June.<br> I, only mourn, because I cannot tell<br> What spring-renewing wakes the sleep of Men.<br> I do but know, (ah! this I know too well)<br> I shall not see the same sweet life again,<br> Nor the dear, Sun, nor stars, nor tender moon.<br></p>