Summer is ended

To think that this meaningless thing was ever a rose
    Scentless, colorless, this!
 Will it ever be thus (who knows?)
     Thus with our bliss,
  If we wait till the close?
Though we care not to wait for the end, there comes the end
    Sooner, later, at last,
 Which nothing can mar, nothing mend:
     An end locked fast,
  Bent we cannot re-bend.

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