My Love is Dead

'Tis Spring, the fresh green glints in the brook, 
The primrose laughs from its shady nook, 
Winter away like a ghost has fled, — 
Let it be Spring, then — my love is dead! 

The Summer is come with burning light; 
The swallow wheels and dips in his flight; 
The Spring away like a ghost has fled, — 
Let it be Summer, my love is dead! 

Autumn is come, with its gold-tressed trees. 
Far through the wood sighs the dirge-like breeze; 
Summer away like a ghost has fled, — 
Let it be Autumn, my love is dead! 

The Winter is come, with white, wan cheek, 
The bare boughs toss, and the wild winds shriek; 
Autumn away like a ghost has fled, — 
Let it be Winter, my love is dead!