Good-By

THE interlacing verdurous screenOf the stanch woodbine still is green,And thickly set with milk-white bloomsGold-anthered, breathing out perfumes;The clematis on trellis barsStill flaunts with white and purple stars;No missing leaf has thinner madeThe obelisks of maple shade;Fresh beech boughs flutter in the breezeWhich, warm as summer, stirs the trees;The sun is clear, the skies are blue:But still a sadness filters throughThe beauty and the bloom; and we,Touched by some mournful prophecy,Whisper each day: “Delay, delay!Make not such haste to fly away!”And they, with silent lips, reply:“Summer is gone; we may not stay.Summer is gone. Good-by! good-by!”Roses may be as fragrant fairAs in the sweet June days they were;No hint of frost may daunt as yetThe clustering brown mignonette,Nor chilly wind forbid to opeThe odorous, fragile heliotrope;The sun may be as warm as May,The night forbear to chase the day,And hushed in false securityAll the sweet realm of Nature be:But the South-loving birds have fled,By their mysterious instinct led;The butterflies their nests have spun,And donned their silken shrouds each one;The bees have hived them fast, while weWhisper each day: “Delay, delay!Make not such haste to fly away!”And all, with pitying looks, reply:“Summer is fled; we may not stay.Summer is gone. Good-by! good-by!”