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The Dying Summer

Gently, sadly, the summer is dying--
            Under the shivering, trembling boughs,
With a low soft moan, the breeze is flying--
The breeze, that was once so fresh and sweet,
Is passing as swift as Time's hurrying feet,
And where the withered roses are lying,
The beautiful summer is surely dying.

Gently, sadly, the waves are sighing,
            The leaves are mourning that they must fall;
And the plaintive waters keep replying,
They miss the light that has decked them long;
They have caught the last bird's farewell song;
And lowly they murmur, from day to day,
"The beautiful summer is passing away."

Gently, sadly, the moon reclining
            High on her throne of azure and gold,
With wan clear light, o'er the world is shining:
Wherever she turns there are tear-drops shed,
They will gleam, till the chilly morn is breaking,
And the flowers with their last pale smiles are waking.

Wildly, sadly, the night wind swelling,
            Chants a measure weird and strange,
Hark! of the coming storm he is telling,
And the trembling life, that was almost gone,
Flickers and shrinks at the dreaded tone,
And scarcely lingers where, lowly lying,
The tender and beautiful summer is dying.

Christian Poetry by Annie Louisa Walker
Public Domain