Summer's Passing

A SINGLE branch of flaming red,

A branch of tawny yellow

And every branch in gorgeousness

A rival of its fellow;

Some russet brown and faded green

With golden shadows in between

And mist-hid sun to mellow.

An instinct as of music near —

A breath the wind is bringing,

Broken and sweet, as from a host

Of swift and solemn winging —

A mystery born of light and sound

Wrapping our tranced progress round —

A sighing and a singing!

Thus in a certain lovely pomp

We leave the Summer lying —

These are her funeral banners, this

The pageantry of dying!

The music that we almost hear

Is wafted from her passing bier —

The singing and the sighing!