Yellowing deeper, dropping faster,

All the grave wherein she lies

With their bodies cover, cover,

With their hearts that love her, love her,

For they live not when she dies:

And we left her so, but stay not

Of our tears, and yet we may not,

Though they coldly thickly fall,

Give the dead leaves any, any,

For they lie so many, many,

That we cannot weep for all.

BALLADE OF SUMMER'S SLEEP.

Sweet summer is gone; they have laid her away—

The last sad hours that were touched with her grace—

In the hush where the ghosts of the dead flowers play;

The sleep that is sweet of her slumbering space

[Pg 26]

Let not a sight or a sound erase

Of the woe that hath fallen on all the lands:

Gather ye, dreams, to her sunny face,

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