Momento "Alban Berg"

Here is the Summer, in all it's wonder,
Mere days have passed, no nights with thunder.
Dry weeks of colours and wind, I find,
Of no Spring's, sweet and kind.

All the trees dance and twirl,
Gold locks that melt and curl,
O'er that dead hill over there,
Without a moment of single care.

They're fast joys pass like old years,
Unmatched by there so-called "fears",
Of no light at all in this Summertime;

'Tis half-past five o'er the hill,
Yet more grow, more kill,
The wind comes, like a chime.