Summer is gone with all its roses, Its sun and perfumes and sweet flowers, Its warm air and refreshing showers: And even Autumn closes.
Yea, Autumn's chilly self is going, And winter comes which is yet colder; Each day the hoar-frost waxes bolder And the last buds cease blowing.
"THE MASTER IS COME, AND CALLETH FOR THEE."
Who calleth?--Thy Father calleth, Run, O Daughter, to wait on Him: He Who chasteneth but for a season Trims thy lamp that it burn not dim.
Who calleth?--Thy Master calleth, Sit, Disciple, and learn of Him: He Who teacheth wisdom of Angels Makes thee wise as the Cherubim,
Who calleth?--Thy Monarch calleth, Rise, O Subject, and follow Him: He is stronger than Death or Devil, Fear not thou if the foe be grim.
Who calleth?--Thy Lord God calleth. Fall, O Creature, adoring Him: He is jealous, thy God Almighty, Count not dear to thee life or limb.
Who calleth?--Thy Bridegroom calleth, Soar, O Bride, with the Seraphim: He Who loves thee as no man loveth, Bids thee give up thy heart to Him.
O Earth, lie heavily upon her eyes; Seal her sweet eyes weary of watching, Earth; Lie close around her; leave no room for mirth With its harsh laughter, nor for sound of sighs. She hath no questions, she hath no replies, Hushed in and curtained with a blessed dearth Of all that irked her from the hour of birth; With stillness that is almost Paradise. Darkness more clear than noonday holdeth her, Silence more musical than any song; Even her very heart has ceased to stir: Until the morning of Eternity Her rest shall not begin nor end, but be; And when she wakes she will not think it long.
I wonder if the sap is stirring yet, If wintry birds are dreaming of a mate, If frozen snowdrops feel as yet the sun And crocus fires are kindling one by one: Sing, robin, sing! I still am sore in doubt concerning Spring.
I wonder if the spring-tide of this year Will bring another Spring both lost and dear; If heart and spirit will find out their Spring, Or if the world alone will bud and sing: Sing, hope, to me! Sweet notes, my hope, soft notes for memory.
The sap will surely quicken soon or late, The tardiest bird will twitter to a mate; So Spring must dawn again with warmth and bloom, Or in this world, or in the world to come: Sing, voice of Spring! Till I too blossom and rejoice and sing.