No Snow Yet (1961)

The bare-headed mountain is weeping at the grave
For the dead skies of summer.
Dark, mourning and brave
For the snows have not yet aged his barren head.

Summer's knell is rung by the clear ground
Which trembles as the last leaf falls into the tomb.
Crossing the sorrowing gloom
There on the earth a dead butterfly is found.

The church tower stifles its grief
And twists its weather-cock in vain,
To hide the pounding bell within its brain.

The gesturing trees have put off their clothing in turn;
And we remember at their roots
Wild strawberries that will not return.