Once I could love this season of the year,
And watch the calm and delicate decline
Of Summer gladly; I could see the pine
Deep green on bluest sky, and laugh for cheer
Of very living. Yet I'd fain appear
Th’ unhurried gourmet, tasting of my wine,
Lingering o'er memories of the purpled vine,
Loath for each passing moment. Ah, my dear,
Now like a careless child, I toss the hours
Over my shoulder, I forget the sun,
The dewy dawn, the white moon and the flowers.
Like a tired pilgrim with his goal in view,
Looking not right nor left, I run, I run
To that bright day of days that brings me you.
I feel as murderers feel, who, having slain
Their love, laugh with red hands and do not care.
I took sweet Summer by her lovely hair,
Bent her white throat, and gladly saw the stain
Crimson her green leaf-gown of hill and plain.
I would not wait for her last kiss, nor spare
One splendid flying hour, for chill and fair
Autumn, my love, comes near me thro’ the rain.
Pale with mysterious wonder, her deep eyes
Are wells of wisdom; fugitive, astray
From a blue land that dreams beyond the skies.
‘ Tis done. I lay young Summer on her pyre,
And turning, burn thro’ distance to the day
That brings me to the lips of my desire.