The Summer Is Ended

Wreathe no more lilies in my hair,
For I am dying, Sister sweet:
Or, if you will for the last time
  Indeed, why make me fair
  Once for my winding-sheet.

Pluck no more roses for my breast,
For I like them fade in my prime :
Or, if you will, why pluck them still,
  That they may share my rest
  Once more for the last time.

Weep not for me when I am gone,
Dear tender one, but hope and smile:
Or, if you cannot choose but weep,
  A little while weep on,
  Only a little while.