After Summer
We ’ll not weep for summer over —
No, not we:
Strew above his head the clover,—
Let him be!
Other eyes may weep his dying,
Shed their tears
There upon him, where he’s lying
With his peers.
Unto some of them he proffer’d
Gifts most sweet;
For our hearts a grave he offer’d,—
Was this meet?
All our fond hopes, praying, perish’d
In his wrath,—
All the lovely dreams we cherish’d
Strew’d his path.
Shall we in our tombs, I wonder,
Far apart,
Sunder’d wide as seas can sunder
Heart from heart,
Dream at all of all the sorrows
That were ours,—
Bitter nights, more bitter morrows;
Poison-flowers
Summer gather’d, as in madness,
Saying, "See,
These are yours, in place of gladness,—
Gifts from me"?
Nay, the rest that will be ours
Is supreme,
And below the poppy flowers
Steals no dream.
~~
Philip Bourke Marston (1850-1887)
from A Last Harvest, 1891
[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]
Philip Bourke Marston biography
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