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| WHEN Earth stands trembling on the brink of June | |
| Spring reads the writing on the sunset’s wall, | |
| And “Farewell” on the bright page of the moon, | |
| While one by one in heaven’s Cimmerian pall | |
| Vague stars are lit for rites funereal. | 5 |
| She hears Night toll the hour of her farewell, | |
| And seeks once more a breast whereon to die— | |
| In the last wood to yield to Summer’s spell, | |
| That still dreams on with wide and tranquil eye | |
| When the great huntress June doth rake the sky | 10 |
| And sow the world with heat, still sees its cool | |
| Green image mirrored in the enchanted pool. | |
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| Past the low track where many a groaning cart | |
| Has lurched above the beating of Spring’s heart | |
| She fleets, June’s arrows falling swift and bright; | 15 |
| The creening curlew-wind wails, following, | |
| The old wheel-wounds are filled with flowers to-night. | |
| Her reels of gold, blue skein and yellow bead | |
| Fall from her hand as wild and white she goes, | |
| The poppy lacking still a golden thread, | 20 |
| Her needle pricking still the unfinished rose. | |
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| To-night the bluebells die, already wan | |
| With prescience of her whose death is theirs; | |
| A sheathing wing the solemn thicket bears, | |
| Though heedless birds sing on, | 25 |
| Though through the listening moonlight wanders still | |
| The wide-lipped water talking in her sleep, | |
| And far beyond the hill, | |
| Across the heaven’s golden vast divide | |
| The twilight rose nods to the lily moon | 30 |
| Too old, too wise to weep, | |
| They watch where Spring has fall’n, and see her swoon | |
| With the long spear of Summer in her side. | |
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| The lean, swift bramble hastens o’er the stones, | |
| A gipsy Autumn makes an emperor | 35 |
| Splendoured in purple, glorious in gold; | |
| He heeds not April’s tale so swiftly told; | |
| And the young trees whom she may tend no more | |
| Forget their cradle-songs in April’s house, | |
| And on Earth’s shoulders take colossal hold, | 40 |
| Against the sun spread vast pavilions, | |
| And stun the great storms with huge thunderous brows. | |
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| Only the playthings of the year that fade | |
| Forgotten in June’s savage, fresh desire— | |
| The weaving-ends of April—shall be laid— | 45 |
| Sweet slaves—upon her pyre. | |
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| From April’s dying hand the jewels fall, | |
| The hawthorn folds her frail embroidery, | |
| The drowsy hyacinth puts out her light, | |
| Gold-throated flowers that lured the pirate bee | 50 |
| Fade like old dreams across the face of night, | |
| Of whom stern Day forbids memorial. . . . . . . . . | |
| Something of Spring must die in us to-night— | |
| Something the full-lipped Summer may not know— | |
| The sharp, sad rapture, the impetuous flight | 55 |
| That finds all heavens too near, all heights too low; | |
| When Dawn seems but a glittering rose to throw | |
| To a mad world, and from Youth’s beakers flow | |
| The keen, the sparkling Daysprings of Delight!— | |
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| But not for ever! All that died to-night | 60 |
| Has heard one same sweet word, and knows that Change | |
| Though seeming wild and strange, | |
| Seeming to stamp its heel on all delight, | |
| And giving Beauty only grace to die, | |
| Shall bring a rich to-morrow; though Spring lie | 65 |
| Dead as the first faith in Youth’s sepulchre, | |
| She shall return, and glide— | |
| A white swan moving on the green Spring-tide: | |
| A snowdrop soon shall quicken in her side, | |
| And round her lips a little sigh shall stir … | 70 |
| While loud December stamps the frozen ways | |
| Leave her to dreamless nights and deedless days, | |
| And strew the paling bluebells over her. | |
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