We'll not weep for summer over,--
No, not we:
Strew above his head the clover,--
Let him be!

Other eyes may weep his dying,
Shed their tears
There upon him, where he's lying
With his peers.

Unto some of them he proffered
Gifts most sweet;
For our hearts a grave he offered,--
Was this meet?

All our fond hopes, praying, perished
In his wrath,--
And the lovely dreams we cherished
Strewed his path.

Shall we in our tombs, I wonder,
Far apart,
Sundered wide as seas can sunder,
Heart from heart,

Dream at all of all the sorrows
That were ours,--
Bitter nights, more bitter morrows;
Poison-flowers

Summer gathered, as in madness,
Saying, 'See
These are yours, in place of gladness,--
Gifts from me'?

Nay, the rest that will be ours
Is supreme,--
And below the poppy flowers
Steals no dream.