Poems (Blake)/A Dead Summer

by Mary Elizabeth Blake

A DEAD SUMMER.

What lacks the summer?
         Not roses blowing,
 Nor tall white lilies with fragrance rife,
Nor green things gay with the bliss of growing,
 Nor glad things drunk with the wine of life,
Nor flushing of clouds in blue skies shining,
 Nor soft wind murmurs to rise and fall,
Nor birds for singing, nor vines for twining,—
  Three little buds I miss, no more,
  That blossomed last year at my garden door,—
    And that is all.

What lacks the summer?
         Not waves a-quiver
 With arrows of light from the hand of dawn,
Nor drooping of boughs by the dimpling river,
 Nor nodding of grass on the windy lawn,
Nor tides upswept upon silver beaches,
 Nor rustle of leaves on tree-tops tall,
Nor dapple of shade in woodland reaches,—
  Life pulses gladly on vale and hill,
  But three little hearts that I love are still,—
    And that is all.

What lacks the summer?
         O light and savor,
 And message of healing the world above!
Gone is the old-time strength and flavor,
 Gone is its old-time peace and love!
Gone is the bloom of the shimmering meadows,
 Music of birds as they sweep and fall,—
All the great world is dim with shadow,
  Because no longer mine eyes can see
  The eyes that made summer and life for me,—
    And that is all.