Transition

A little while to walk with thee, dear child; To lean on thee my weak and weary head; Then evening comes: the winter sky is wild, The leafless trees are black, the leaves long dead. A little while to hold thee and to stand, By harvest-fields of bending golden corn; Then the predestined silence, and thine hand, Lost in the night, long and weary and forlorn. A little while to love thee, scarcely time To love thee well enough; then time to part, To fare through wintry fields alone and climb The frozen hills, not knowing where thou art. Short summer-time and then, my heart's desire, The winter and the darkness: one by one The roses fall, the pale roses expire Beneath the slow decadence of the sun.