O late and sweet, too sweet, too late!
What nightingale will sing to thee?
The empty nest, the shivering tree,
The dead leaves by the garden gate,
And cawing crows for thee will wait,
O sweet and late!

Where wert thou when the soft June nights
Were faint with perfume, glad with song?
Where wert thou when the days were long
And steeped in Summer's young delights?
What hopest thou now but checks and slights,
Brief days, lone nights?

Stay, there's a gleam of Winter wheat
Far on the hill; down in the woods
A very heaven of stillness broods;
And through the mellow sun's worn heat,
Lo! tender pulses round thee beat,
O late and sweet!