Volume 4 — THE SUMMER DAYS ARE GONE.

The flowers that made the summer air So fragrant with their rich perfume, Alas! are gone, their leaves so fair Lie faded in their autumn tomb. The branches now are almost bare, Where summer song-birds made their homes; Where trees are green, where flowers are fair, Once more the happy birds have flown. To distant lands o'er sunny seas The songsters bright have taken wing. To warble on that warmer breeze The notes they sang to us in spring. Her autumn robe of red and brown Once more the gliding year puts on, And yonder sun looks colder down Since the bright summer days are gone. The stars, the glory of the night, Look on us still with silvery eye— Shine on us still as clear and bright. But not from out the summer sky. The chilly breezes of the north Tell us it is no longer spring, And winter's hand is reaching forth To wither every verdant thing. So even like the birds the flowers. When dearest things of life have flown. Then in the heart's deserted bowers The naked branches stand alone. Oh, then, alas! no breath of spring Can breathe the living verdure on. No sun will shine, no birds will sing— For ever is the summer gone. But when the heart beats high and warm. And kindred hearts its throbbing share. It heeds not winter's clouds nor storm, But summer tarries always there.