Summer’s nearly gone; life it could not sustain

As are the flowers, which drank of its rain

And those birds-will they ever come again?

Autumn, I’m not ready, though you soon will reign

Why are seasons born from the end of one held dear?

Why is the future still something I do fear?

Why can’t I be content with what God puts here?

Things I value now are not what they’ll appear

Soon, I’ll say goodbye to that pleasant sky

Soon small treasures will wither up and die

My sinking heart slows as summer flies by

Would matters change, if I asked, why?