BITTER FOR SWEET
SUMMER is gone with all its roses,
Its sun and perfumes and sweet flowers,
Its warm air and refreshing showers:
And even Autumn closes.
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.
And winter comes which is yet colder:
Each day the hoar-frost waxes bolder;
And the last buds cease blowing.