Autumn

Fugitive, wistful, Pausing at edge of her going, Autumn, the maiden, turns, Leans to the earth with ineffable Gesture. Ah, more than Spring's skies her skies shine Tender and frailer Bloom than plum-bloom or almond Lies on her hillsides, her fields, Misted, faint-flushing. Ah, lovelier Is her refusal than Yielding who pauses with grave Backward smiling, with light Unforgettable touch of Fingers withdrawn. . . Pauses, lo Vanishes. . fugitive, wistful. . . x 'Ah me… Alas' (He) Ah me, my love's heart, Like some frail flower, apart, High, on the cliff's edge growing, Touched by unhindered sun to sweeter showing, Swung by each faint wind's faintest blowing, But so, on the cliff's edge growing, From man's reach aloof, apart: Ah me, my love's heart! (She) Alack, alas, my lover, As one who would discover At world's end his path, Nor knows at all what fae[umlaut]ry way he hath Who turneth dreaming into faith And followeth that near path His own heart dareth to discover: Alack, alas, my lover!