Ah, woe is me, for Love hath lain asleep,
Hath lain too long in some Morphean close--
Till on his dreaming wings the ruined rose
Fell lightly, and the rose-red leaves were deep.
Alas, alas, for Love is overlate!
Far-wandering, alone, we know not where,
He found the white and purple poppies fair,
Nor heard the Summer pass importunate.
Ah, Love, can we forgive thy loitering?...
The golden Summer, as a dream forgone,
Is changed--till in our eyes the ashen dawn
Of autumn kindles. We have heard thy wing
But with a sound of sighing; heart on heart,
In our own sighs we hear thy wing depart.