And hearts are heavy that awoke so gay.

What though the faithful trees, still gladly green,
Show fretted depths of blue their boughs between,
Though placid sunlight sleeps upon the lawn,
It only tells us of what might have been
Of fickle favours wantonly withdrawn.

Blown with rude winds, and beaten down with rain,
How can the roses dare to trust again
The tricksy mistress whom they once adored?
Even the glad heaven, chilled with stormy stain,
Grudges its skylark pilgrims of its hoard.

Poor is the vintage that the wild bee quiffs,
When the tall simple lilies--the giraffes
That browse on loftier air than other flowers--
When all the blooms, wherewith late Summer laughs,
Like chidden children droop among the bowers.

Oft like a moorhen scuttling to the reeds,
The cricket-ball sped o'er the plashy meads,
And rainbow-blended blazers shrank and ran
When showers, in mockery of his moist needs,
Half-drown'd the water-loving river man.

What woman's rights have crazed thee?
Would'st thou be
A Winter Amazon, more fierce than he?
Can Summer birds thy shrew-heroics sing?