Oh, the sad smile the summer gives
Among the hurrying cries!
Her wealth hides frail hurt things.
The passing kings
Cannot put forth a more appealing hand
Than autumn where he makes a sad last stand.
But oh, the half-hushed moans
That are spring’s wandering tones
By stolid towns and ways!
We have not such wild days—
So much to lose, such beauty, root and branch,
To change, to shake and blanch
And fall to death;
We have not such soft breath.