Poem By David Mitchell
The shining summer ages, dwindles, dies;
The heat turns to the cold.
The former azure hue of yonder skies
Is hardly to behold:
For often, as hastens the wintry time,
Full many a cotton cloud
O'ercasts the heaven; approaches the cold clime
When snow shall come, like shroud.
'Tis not here yet; some warmth doth yet remain,
As leaves from bleak boughs fall:
The mellow colours winter will disdain,
For they will vanish, all:
The autumn, like its leaves, must fall and fade,
With the ephem'ral year:
Creation all will have died and decay'd,
That green was ere 'twas sere.