XXI. SONG
I
Yes, the white meadow-sweet is fair,
With fronds upon the June-breeze shaking,—
And sweet the sumptuous summer air
The reeds and tossing branches taking,
And sweet the sound of birds awaking,
And sweet the whisper on the shore
Of small white-crested clear waves breaking:—
But all the glory of these is o'er
If I may hear your voice no more,—O love, no more!
II
Once loves were many as the flowers
Upon the wind their petals flinging;
Soft voices silvery in the bowers
That then were full of youth's wild singing:
But now life's autumn leaves are clinging
To branches brown and sad and dry
That once with throstles' notes were ringing:—
If this last love must wither and die
There are no other loves beneath the darkening sky.
