An Autumn Thrush

Like some regret that, half-forgot, Gropes into memory, Here in a shadow-chosen spot Thy music steals to me. To soft for joy, too mild for grief, Within the wood it dies— Beauty too wayward and too brief To grace our noonday skies. The dusk enfolds me, and the year Stands at the western gate. Thy song, the symbol of a tear, Echoes the cry 'Too late!' 'Too late!' cries back the conscious heart, As one that in dismay Had seen the affronted gods depart And could not bid them stay; Nor could retain from Time's control A moment or a flow'r, Save when in woodlands of the soul Such strains endure an hour.