I leave now, Summer, and will rue
Your evenings' soft, submissive hands.
Arriving old, arriving true,
You will in my soul find no man.
My terrace, Summer, you will see
With amethyst and golden beads,
Like some sad bishop, quiet, bare,
Who's come from far to bless and seek
The broken rings of now-dead pairs.
I leave now, Summer, but a rose,
September's best, I leave to you;
May you let holy water flow
On days of sin and days of tomb.
And if this crypt for tears should shake
Its marble in its faith's sweet light,
So shall your answer rise and plead
That God make sure this light abate.
By now it must be all too late;
For in my soul no man you'll see.
Cry not, O Summer, in this earth
There dies a rose of much rebirth.