So now, then, Summer 's over -- by degrees. Hark! 't is the wind in you red region grieves. Who says the world grows better, growing old? See! what poor trumpery on those pauper trees, That cannot keep, for all their fine gold leaves, Their last bird from the cold. This is Dame Nature, puckered, pinched, and sour, Of all the charms her poets praised, bereft, Scowling and scolding (only hear her, there!) Like that old spiteful Queen, in her last hour, Whom Spenser, Shakespeare, sung to...nothing left But wrinkles and red hair! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BALLADE MADE FOR HIS MOTHER THAT SHE MIGHTE PRAYE by FRANCOIS VILLON TO HIS WIFE ON THE 16TH ANNIVERSARY OF HER WEDDING DAY, WITH A RING by SAMUEL BISHOP THE LITTLE BLACK BOY, FR. SONGS OF INNOCENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE SELF-INTERROGATION by EMILY JANE BRONTE BERTHA IN THE LANE by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING CINQUAIN: NIGHT WINDS by ADELAIDE CRAPSEY |