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Thomas Hood - The Departure of Summer
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Summer is gone on swallows` wings, 
And Earth has buried all her flowers: 
No more the lark,—the linnet—sings, 
But Silence sits in faded bowers. 
There is a shadow on the plain 
Of Winter ere he comes again,— 
There is in woods a solemn sound 
Of hollow warnings whisper`d round, 
As Echo in her deep recess 
For once had turn`d a prophetess. 
Shuddering Autumn stops to list, 
And breathes his fear in sudden sighs, 
With clouded face, and hazel eyes 
That quench themselves, and hide in mist. 
Yes, Summer`s gone like pageant bright; 
Its glorious days of golden light 
Are gone—the mimic suns that quiver, 
Then melt in Time`s dark-flowing river. 
Gone the sweetly-scented breeze 
That spoke in music to the trees; 
Gone—for damp and chilly breath, 
As if fresh blown o`er marble seas, 
Or newly from the lungs of Death. 
Gone its virgin roses` blushes, 
Warm as when Aurora rushes 
Freshly from the God`s embrace, 
With all her shame upon her face. 
Old Time hath laid them in the mould; 
Sure he is blind as well as old, 
Whose hand relentless never spares 
Young cheeks so beauty-bright as theirs! 
Gone are the flame-eyed lovers now 
From where so blushing-blest they tarried 
Under the hawthorn`s blossom-bough, 
Gone; for Day and Night are married. 
All the light of love is fled:— 
Alas! that negro breasts should hide 
The lips that were so rosy red, 
At morning and at even-tide! 
Delightful Summer! then adieu 
Till thou shalt visit us anew: 
But who without regretful sigh 
Can say, adieu, and see thee fly? 
Not he that e`er hath felt thy pow`r. 
His joy expanding like a flow`r, 
That cometh after rain and snow, 
Looks up at heaven, and learns to glow:— 
Not he that fled from Babel-strife 
To the green sabbath-land of life, 
To dodge dull Care `mid clustered trees, 
And cool his forehead in the breeze,— 
Whose spirit, weary-worn perchance, 
Shook from its wings a weight of grief, 
And perch`d upon an aspen leaf, 
For every breath to make it dance. 
Farewell!—on wings of sombre stain, 
That blacken in the last blue skies, 
Thou fly`st; but thou wilt come again 
On the gay wings of butterflies. 
Spring at thy approach will sprout 
Her new Corinthian beauties out, 
Leaf-woven homes, where twitter-words 
Will grow to songs, and eggs to birds; 
Ambitious buds shall swell to flowers, 
And April smiles to sunny hours, 
Bright days shall be, and gentle nights 
Full of soft breath and echo-lights, 
As if the god of sun-time kept 
His eyes half-open while he slept. 
Roses shall be where roses were, 
Not shadows, but reality; 
As if they never perished there, 
But slept in immortality: 
Nature shall thrill with new delight, 
And Time`s relumined river run 
Warm as young blood, and dazzling bright, 
As if its source were in the sun! 
But say, hath Winter then no charms? 
Is there no joy, no gladness warms 
His aged heart? no happy wiles 
To cheat the hoary one to smiles? 
Onward he comes—the cruel North 
Pours his furious whirlwind forth 
Before him—and we breathe the breath 
Of famish`d bears that howl to death. 
Onward he comes from the rocks that blanch 
O`er solid streams that never flow: 
His tears all ice, his locks all snow, 
Just crept from some huge avalanche— 
A thing half-breathing and half-warm, 
As if one spark began to glow 
Within some statue`s marble form, 
Or pilgrim stiffened in the storm. 
Oh! will not Mirth`s light arrows fail 
To pierce that frozen coat of mail? 
Oh! will not joy but strive in vain 
To light up those glazed eyes again? 
No! take him in, and blaze the oak, 
And pour the wine, and warm the ale; 
His sides shall shake to many a joke, 
His tongue shall thaw in many a tale, 
His eyes grow bright, his heart be gay, 
And even his palsy charm`d away. 
What heeds he then the boisterous shout 
Of angry winds that scowl without, 
Like shrewish wives at tavern door? 
What heeds he then the wild uproar 
Of billows bursting on the shore? 
In dashing waves, in howling breeze, 
There is a music that can charm him; 
When safe, and sheltered, and at ease, 
He hears the storm that cannot harm him. 
But hark! those shouts! that sudden din 
Of little hearts that laugh within. 
Oh! take him where the youngsters play, 
And he will grow as young as they! 
They come! they come! each blue-eyed Sport, 
The Twelfth-Night King and all his court— 
`Tis Mirth fresh crown`d with misletoe! 
Music with her merry fiddles, 
Joy "on light fantastic toe," 
Wit with all his jests and riddles, 
Singing and dancing as they go. 
And Love, young Love, among the rest, 
A welcome—nor unbidden guest. 
But still for Summer dost thou grieve? 
Then read our Poets—they shall weave 
A garden of green fancies still, 
Where thy wish may rove at will. 
They have kept for after-treats 
The essences of summer sweets, 
And echoes of its songs that wind 
In endless music through the mind: 
They have stamp`d in visible traces 
The "thoughts that breathe," in words that shine— 
The flights of soul in sunny places— 
To greet and company with thine. 
These shall wing thee on to flow`rs— 
The past or future, that shall seem 
All the brighter in thy dream 
For blowing in such desert hours. 
The summer never shines so bright 
As thought-of in a winter`s night; 
And the sweetest loveliest rose 
Is in the bud before it blows; 
The dear one of the lover`s heart 
Is painted to his longing eyes, 
In charms she ne`er can realize— 
But when she turns again to part. 
Dream thou then, and bind thy brow 
With wreath of fancy roses now, 
And drink of Summer in the cup 
Where the Muse hath mix`d it up; 
The "dance, and song, and sun-burnt mirth," 
With the warm nectar of the earth: 
Drink! `twill glow in every vein, 
And thou shalt dream the winter through: 
Then waken to the sun again, 
And find thy Summer Vision true!
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