Blest be all those days of spring,
The days too quickly pass,
When every budding flower sings,
To woo the flowering grass.

When mount and hill,
In form so still,
Stand out against the blue.

Shades of underlying gloom,
Bathed in a sky of grey,
The violet petals no longer bloom,
In the heat of the spring
..............But the flowers are dead,
..............Each golden head,
In the dusk of the last summer's day.

E. Grandi U.6