Janet Hamilton

1795-1873 / Scotland

Summer Is Waning

Summer is waning, the roses are dead;
Lilies, sweet violets, and hyacinths fled;
Her fragrant blossoms the hawthorn has shed;
Faded the cowslip; and low on her bed
The daisy is drooping and pale.
The sorrel's soft blossoms of pearly gloss
Hide in her cushion of green velvet moss;
Bloomless the eglantine droops from the trees,
Her honey├Ęd breathings perfume not the breeze
That murmurs and sighs through the vale.
Warblers are silent: the song of the thrush
Is hailing no more, from tree and from bush,
The soft summer dawn with roseate blush
Kindling the east with a crimsoning flush,
Brightened with streamers of gold.
Grasshoppers chirrup no more in the grass;
We hear not the humming of bees as they pass,
Nectar to drain from the sweet heather bells,
Storing their treasures in soft waxen cells,
For winter, dark, cheerless, and cold.
Man! when the rose of thy summer is dead,
When youth, with its flowers and pleasures are fled,
Blossoms that charm'd with their fragrance, all shed;
Time and decay shedding snow on thy head;
And thy brow grows wrinkled and pale.
Then when the roses and flowers of thy youth
Shall die, may blossoms of virtue and truth,
Deathless in beauty, and rich in perfume,
Cheer thee in life, and shed over thy tomb
Sweet memories never to fail!
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