Without your showers, I breed no flowers,
Each field a barren waste appears;
If you do n't weep, my blossoms sleep,
They take such pleasures in your tears.
As your decay made room for May,
So I must part with all that's mine:
My balmy breeze, my blooming trees
To torrid suns their sweets resign!
O'er April dead, my shades I spread:
To her I owe my dress so gay —
Of daughters three, it falls on me
To close our triumphs on one day:
Thus, to repose, all Nature goes;
Month after month must find its doom:
Time on the wing, May ends the Spring,
And Summer dances on her tomb!