Read this poet
The summer of my mirth has fled:
Long since wilted are the lily,
Rose and dahlia; the sun despairs
in darkness, and the leaves are dead.
My blood is nectar for the moon:
Rotting apples of the season
Litter listless streets, where blossoms sought
To make their merry way in June.
For death has come, the world is bare:
Stillness falls on all in mourning;
Dreary clouds in desolation weep
From heavens greying in despair.
Our happiness and hope exhaust:
Roseate and gilded leaves are
Torn from withered trees; Another year
Is dead, and all we had is lost.