The winds have chilled the loving odorous South,
All wan and grey she seeks a place to die,
Her tossing hair, her pleading passionate mouth,
Pity that things so fair in death must lie;
But Winter holds and kills her with a sigh.
One kiss he lays upon her lips so proud,
Shuts the blue eyes and winds her sombre shroud.
I walk between the narrow way of yew.
The glowing amaranth droops upon its stalk,
The shivering birds are timorous and few,
And waifs of Summer strew th’ untended walk;
With vague sweet forms I seem to pass and talk.
The ladies of those days in Summer's prime
Whose smiles prevailed not for the frown of Time.
Their little tripping feet reluctant turned
Down the dark paths they had not known before;
Behind them all the glow of living burned,
But they must enter thro’ the gloomy door,
And leave behind the loves that plead no more,
The dear frivolity of wiles and ways
They neither need nor know in these grim days.
Here in their garden's close I spend no tear,
No smile — too rare the heights for such display.
But on the frosted hedges’ lifted spear
And with my head a little bowed, I lay
A pale camelia, proud and cold as they
Who wait beneath their ashen pall of snow —
Perhaps the fair dead dames will see and know.