Henry Shelton Sanford, Jr. (1865–1891)

AS sometimes, in the very heart of June,

Which still remembers all the buds of May,

And half foresees the autumn’s rich display,

And all the splendor of the harvest moon:

As if November had returned too soon,

Cold winds blow, and the sky is chill and gray,

And all is dreary that but now seemed gay,

And Nature with herself seems out of tune,—

So, in the early summer of my life,

Instead of happy strength and strenuous play,

Eld’s cares have come, long wearied of the strife

That youth delights in; and my summer day

Is darkened as by Death’s impending knife,

And I would die, for joy is far away.