Poems (Denver)/The Bier of Summer

by Mary Caroline Denver

THE BIER OF SUMMER.

Summer is dead! what shall we take
 To grace the Summer's bier?
I heard her last, her faintest sigh,
 Fall sadly on the ear,
Like to some passing melody
 I almost grieved to hear.

All! where are now those sunny hours
 So smiled on from above?
And where are now those blissful bowers
 Through which we loved to rove?
And where the fragrance of those flowers
 Whose every breath was love?

I see nought by the Summer's bier
 Of all she loved of yore;
Where is the brightness of her skies,
 The wild-flower wreath she wore?
Oh! have they followed to decay,
 Or did they go before?

Many have gone, but few remain
 As mourners o'er the tomb
Of parted Summer—there to shed
 A kind of wild perfume;
And from her silent halls disperse
 The darkness of their gloom.

And is this all? Are there no more,
 To mourn for Summer fled?
To breathe a prayer above her tomb,
 One silent tear to shed?
Ah, yes! one gentle heart remains
 To weep beside the dead!

Autumn stretched forth her graceful hands
 To deck the Summer's bier.
I saw her strew her leaves around,
 Her mournful smile appear;
And o'er the earth I heard the wail,
 The whispered sigh, the tear.

She placed on Summer's silent brow,
 The chaplet she had wove,
Of yellow leaves and faded flowers—
 Fit emblem of her love—
That she had gathered through long hours,
 From meadow, hill, and grove.

In her soft eyes was tenderness,
 Without despair or gloom,
As she bent o'er Summer's faded bier,
 And gave her all her bloom.
O! the dead are never desolate
 While love bends o'er their tomb!