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Reluctantly the summer goes;
The crimson radiance of the rose
Is ashen in the garden-close.


There is a pleading plaintiveness
In the long hill-wind's low caress,
Heart-moving and yet passionless.


The noons are heavy with the heat,
And still, save for the thin-drawn beat
Of the cicada, shrilly-sweet.


Faintly the groves begin to grieve,
And grows more mournful eve by eve
The music-web the thrushes weave.


And Love, erewhile in vernal guise,
Adown the land, in pensive wise,
Now wanders with averted eyes.