 | Love's memorial |  |
47
THE END OF AUTUMN.
O my dead youth, O summers passed in vain!
For me through no September's evening mist
Will roll no corn or vintage-bearing wain
Deep-laden from my dried and sterile plain;
The parting swallows mock with “Had I wist”
The floating hopes that I have never kissed.
For me through no September's evening mist
Will roll no corn or vintage-bearing wain
Deep-laden from my dried and sterile plain;
The parting swallows mock with “Had I wist”
The floating hopes that I have never kissed.
Alas! I sob, “alas, what might have been,”
And hate myself, sole author of my woe,
For all dead pleasures played out long ago,
To leave a gesturing shadow on the scene,
With moaning mouth, and feet that pace between
Gilt crowns, and masks and sceptres lying low.
And hate myself, sole author of my woe,
For all dead pleasures played out long ago,
To leave a gesturing shadow on the scene,
With moaning mouth, and feet that pace between
Gilt crowns, and masks and sceptres lying low.
Ah, had I wist when dawn came up with spring!
Ah, had I wist among the summer's flowers!
Now Autumn fading with the crimson hours,
Above my living tomb bids sorrow ring
The muffled bell that shakes the ruined towers
And yellow woods where I was wont to sing.
Ah, had I wist among the summer's flowers!
Now Autumn fading with the crimson hours,
Above my living tomb bids sorrow ring
The muffled bell that shakes the ruined towers
And yellow woods where I was wont to sing.
| Love's memorial | |