And Give No Warning To Her Flight

April, come she will,
when streams are ripe
and swelled with rain.
May, she will stay,
resting in my arms again.
June, she'll change her tune.
In restless walks
she'll prowl the night.
July, she will fly,
and give no warning
to her flight.
August, die she must.
The autumn winds
blow chilly and cold.
September, I'll remember
a love once new
has now grown old.
--Paul Simon