After Summer

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.