Summer is gone on swallows' wings, 



And Earth has buried all her flowers ; 



No more the lark, the linnet sings, 



But silence sits in faded bowers. 



There is a shadow on the plain 



Of Winter ere he comes again, 



There is in woods a solemn sound 



Of hollow warnings whispered round, 



As echo in her deep recess 



For once had turned a prophetess. 



Shuddering Autumn stops to list, 



And breathes his fear in sudden sighs, 



With clouded face and hazed eyes 



That quench themselves, and hide in mist. 



THOMAS HOOD. 



