The Summer’s Lament

 

The summer wanes, its gilded crown is shed,
And I, unblessed, have let its hours decay;
No wanderer’s path, no mountain road I tread,
No wheels that sang beneath the fervent day.

The Devon shore, in promise bright, was bare,
A house remote, the sea a distant song;
The snarling streets, the choking, crowded air,
Turned fleeting joy to bitterness and wrong.

Now autumn’s dirge is whispered by the rain,
The sullen winds their mournful banners fling;
The lengthening night proclaims in dark refrain,
The death of summer, and the fall of spring.

And lo—two moons must wane ere I am old,
My threescore years a burden on my frame;
Mine eyes grow dim, my breath is wan and cold,
The treadmill grinds, yet never ends the same.

Yet still I pray, O Mary, Christ Divine,
That courage gird my soul, though flesh grows weak;
That through the storm Thy steadfast star may shine,
And guide me onward, though the night is bleak.

So shall I fight, until the final breath,
The noble fight that dares the hand of death.