Explore "A Dirge" by Edith Nesbit on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Let Summer go / To other gardens; here we have no need of her.
She smiles and beckons, but we take no heed of her, / Who love not Summer, but bare boughs and snow.
Set the snow free / To choke the insolent triumph of the year, / With birds that sing as though he still were here, / And flowers that blow as if he still could see.
Let the rose die -- / What ailed the rose to blow? she is not dear to us, / Nor all the summer pageant that draws near to us; / Let it be over soon, let it go by!
Let winter come, / With the wild mourning of the wind-tossed boughs / To drown the stillness of the empty house / To which no more the little feet come home.