p. 15 | Summer's Done by Mrs. L. C. Whiton

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · Oct 22, 1914

Summer's Done

By Mrs. L. C. Whiton

THINNER the leaves of the larches show, Motionless held in the languid air; Fainter by waysides the sweetbriers grow, Wide bloom laying their gold hearts bare, Languishing one by one: Summer is almost done.

Deeper-hued roses have long since died; Silent the birds through the white mist fly; Down of the thistles by hot sun dried, Covers with pale fleece vines growing nigh; Little brooks calmer run: Summer is almost done.

Later the flush of the sunrise sweeps, Shortening the reign of the slow-com- ing day; Earlier shade of the twilight creeps Over the swallows skimming away; Crickets their notes have begun: Summer is almost done.

Darkened to mourning the sad-colored beech; Empty the nests in its purple boughs lie; Something elusive we never can reach Deepens the glory of days going by; Aftermath lies in the sun; Summer is almost done.

Child, why regret that the summer must go? Sweet lies the aftermath left in the sun; Lives that are earnest more beautiful grow Out of a childhood in beauty begun: Harvests of gold can be won Only — when summer is done.

— Mrs. L. C. Whiton.