Go, my summer, where the fields
Still hold the sound of laden bee;
And red-top yields its treasure
To the comb so soon replete.
Go, summer, while there is yet time,
Remembering meadows where the sweet
Wild berries grew and daisies,
White as stars, spread to the sun;
While yet the tree but little stained with frost
Tells of the shade its branches made at noon.
Go now, my summer, soon! ere long the owl
Will shiver and the leaf will fade.
My bare feet knew a wood's stream, cool,
Where sanded bar and shelving pool
Dreamed in the sun and silver-fleshed trout
Flecked the way of speckled water, rushing free.
Haste, summer, flee!
But find again
The shadow of the oak, the pine,
Before the red leaf drift from tree, from vine,
And song be hushed.
O haste, my summer, lest you wait
Too long . . . too late.