Edith Nesbit - A Dirge

LET Summer go
To other gardens; here we have no need of her.
She smiles and beckons, but we take no heed of her,
Who love not Summer, but bare boughs and snow,


Set the snow free
To choke the insolent triumph of the year,
With birds that sing as though he still were here,
And flowers that blow as if he still could see.


Let the rose die--
What ailed the rose to blow? she is not dear to us,
Nor all the summer pageant that draws near to us;
Let it be over soon, let it go by!


Let winter come,
With the wild mourning of the wind-tossed boughs
To drown the stillness of the empty house
To which no more the little feet come home.

Edith Nesbit

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