Читать книгу Bentley's Miscellany, Volume II - Various - Страница 24

Of all the months in the twelve that fly

So lightly on, and noiselessly by,

There is not one who can show so fair

As this, with its soft and balmy air.

The light graceful corn waves to and fro,

Tinging the earth with its richest glow;

The forest trees in their state and might

Proclaim that Summer is at his height.

Of all the months in the twelve that speed

So quickly by, with so little heed

From man, of the years that swiftly pass

As an infant's breath from a polished glass,

There is not one whose fading away

Bears such a lesson to mortal clay,

Warning us sternly, when in our prime,

To look for the withering winter time.

I stood by a young girl's grave last night,

Beautiful, innocent, pure, and bright,

Who, in the bloom of her summer's pride,

And all its loveliness, drooped and died.

Since the sweetest flow'rs are soonest dust,

As truest metal is quick to rust,

Look for a change in that time of year,

When Nature's works at their best appear.