Where are the blooms of Summer?--In the west, Blushing their last to the last sunny hours. When the mild Eve by sudden Night is prest Like tearful Proserpine, snatch'd from her flow'rs To a most gloomy breast. Where is the pride of Summer,--the green prime,-- The many, many leaves all twinkling?--Three On the moss'd elm; three on the naked lime Trembling,--and one upon the old oak tree! Where is the Dryad's immortality?-- Gone into mournful cypress and dark yew, Or wearing the long gloomy Winter through In the smooth holly's green eternity. The squirrel gloats on his accomplish'd hoard, The ants have brimm'd their garners with ripe grain, And honey been save stored The sweets of summer in their luscious cells; The swallows all have wing'd across the main; But here the Autumn melancholy dwells, And sighs her tearful spells Amongst the sunless shadows of the plain. Alone, alone, Upon a mossy stone, She sits and reckons up the dead and gone, With the last leaves for a love-rosary; Whilst all the wither'd world looks drearily, Like a dim picture of the drowned past In the hush'd mind's mysterious far-away, Doubtful what ghostly thing will steal the last Into that distance, gray upon the gray. O go and sit with her, and be o'ershaded Under the languid downfall of her hair; She wears a coronal of flowers faded Upon her forehead, and a face of care;-- There is enough of wither'd everywhere To make her bower,--and enough of gloom; There is enough of sadness to invite, If only for the rose that died, whose doom Is Beauty's,--she that with the living bloom Of conscious cheeks most beautifies the light: There is enough of sorrowing, and quite Enough of bitter fruits the earth doth bear,-- Enough of chilly droppings from her bowl; Enough of fear and shadowy despair, To frame her cloudy prison for the soul! SONNET. SILENCE. There is a silence where hath been no sound, There is a silence where no sound may be, In the cold grave--under the deep deep sea, Or in wide desert where no life is found, Which hath been mute, and still must sleep profound; No voice is hush'd--no life treads silently, But clouds and cloudy shadows wander free. That never spoke, over the idle ground: But in green ruins, in the desolate walls Of antique palaces, where Man hath been, Though the dun fox, or wild hyaena, calls, And owls, that flit continually between, Shriek to the echo, and the low winds moan,-- There the true Silence is, self-conscious and alone. SONNET. WRITTEN IN KEATS' "ENDYMION."