After Summer

Philip Bourke Marston (1850–1887)

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,—

All 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.