O' lament for the fair Summer's reign,
Who succumbed her song for Autumn's bane.
Like season to another, with little defence,
Was traded away our sweet demesne.
As slowly she removed her warm presence,
She implied, Autumn too when his time past,
Would wither and die like Summer must,
And make his way for Winter's powers,
Which retake now frozen woodland bowers,
And both strangle and caress all they grasp.
So, let none accuse that like banshee's wail,
Awfully sounds the blowing winds of winter's hail.
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