SUMMER DYING

Last night the heavy moaning wind

Bore unto me

Warning from Him who hath designed

That change shall be.

Beneath these mighty hills I lay,

At rest at last,

And thinking on the golden day

But now gone past;

When softly came a faint, far cry

That night made clear,

“Thy reign is over, thou must die;

Winter is near!”

“Winter is near!” Yea, all night long

Reechoed far

The burden of that weary song

Of hopeless war.

I prayed unto the fixed King

Of changing Time

For longer life, till sun-rising

And morning's prime,

And while to-day I watched the sun

Rise, slant, and die;

And now is night the stronger one.

Again the cry

Comes, louder now,— “Thy reign is o'er!”

Yes, Lord, I know;

And here I kneel on Earth's cold floor

Once, ere I go,

And thank Thee for the long, long days

Thou gavest me,

And all the pleasant, laughing ways

I walked with Thee.

I have been happy since the first

Glad day I rose

And found the river here had burst

Through ice and snows

While I had slept. Blue places were

Amidst the gray,

Where water showed; and the water

Most quiet lay.

Upon the ice great flocks of crows

Were clamoring —

Lest my blue eyes again should close —

The eyes of Spring.

I stepped down to the frozen shore —

The snow was gone;

And lo, where ice had been before,

The river shone!

With loud, hoarse cries back flew the birds

To the tall pines;

These were the first of Spring's faint words

And Summer's signs.

And now I hear Thee — “Thou must die!”

Ah, might I stay,

That I might hear one robin's cry

Bringing the day;

That I might see the new grass come

Where cattle range;

The maples bud, wild roses bloom,

Old willows change;

That I might know one night in June

Two found most fair,

And see again the great half-moon

Shine through her hair;

Or under rough, gnarled boughs might lie,

Where orchards are,

And hear some glad child's laughing cry

Ring loud and far;

Or even, Lord, though near my end

It surely be,

Couldst Thou not hold Time back, and send

One day to me,

One day — October's brown and red

Cover the hills,

And all the brakes and ferns are dead,

And quiet fills

One place where many birds once sang?

Then should I go

Where heavy fir-trees overhang

Their branches so,

And slim white birches, quivering,

Loose yellow leaves,

And aspens grow, and everything

For Summer grieves.

Ah, there once more, ere day be done,

To face the west,

And see the sure and scarlet sun

Sink to its rest

Beyond the ploughed field sloping sheer

Up to the sky;

To feel the last light disappear

And silent die;

To see faint stars.... Yea, Lord, I come;

I hear Thy call;

Reach me Thy hand and guide me home,

Lest I should fall....

Back, Winter! Back!... Yea, Lord, I, dead,

Now come to Thee;

I know Thy voice, and Thou hast said

“Let Winter be!”