Seasons

by Betty

Summer is Ended (I)

Summer is Ended
To think that this meaningless thing was ever a rose,
Scentless, colourless, this!
Will it ever be thus (who knows ?)
Thus with our bliss, If we wait till the close?
Tho' we care not to wait for the end, there comes the end
Sooner, later, at last,
Which nothing can mar, nothing mend:
An end locked fast,
Bent we cannot re-bend.

(II)
Wreathe no more lillies in my hair,
For I am dying, Sister sweet:
Or, if you will for the last time
Indeed, why make me fair
Once for my winding sheet.
(...)

- Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)

• Winter - Rolling Stones
• Landslide - Fleetwood Mac