Good Novel
When Summer came, a sickle
Stuck in her sheaf of gleams,
And let the honey trickle
From out the beehives' seams;
Within the violet-blotted
Sweet book to us alloted, -
Whose lines are starry dotted, -
Love read us still his dreams.
Then Autumn came, - a liar,
A fair-faced heretic; -
In gypsy garb of fire,
Throned on a harvest rick. -
Our lives, that fate had thwarted,
Stood pale and broken hearted, -
Though smiling when we parted, -
Where love to death lay sick.
Now is the Winter waited,
The tyrant hoar and old,
With death and hunger mated,
Who counts his crimes like gold. -
Once more before forever
We part - once more, then never -