Henry Newbolt

In July

His beauty bore no token,
  No sign our gladness shook;
With tender strength unbroken
  The hand of Life he took:
But the summer flowers were falling,
  Falling and fading away,
And mother birds were calling,
    Crying and calling
  For their loves that would not stay.

He knew not Autumn's chillness,
  Nor Winter's wind nor Spring's.
He lived with Summer's stillness
  And sun and sunlit things:
But when the dusk was falling
  He went the shadowy way,
And one more heart is calling,
    Crying and calling
  For the love that would not stay.