Sweetheart, when the year turns back,
And over her summer track
Goes trailing in robes of mist,
And holding her poor pale lips,
Chill with their half eclipse,
Up to the sun to be kissed--
Then over the parting line
The dead days glimmering shine,
With pitiful faces fair.
They are perfect, all but breath,
And I mind me of their death
By the chill that is in the air.
Yet at the sight I yearn;
And O, that they would return
With the love that I forego!
And I murmur, ah! how long?
And sorrow takes up her song--
"Till the rose blooms in the snow."
So all the story is told.
Cease, for the heart's a-cold,
And the winter claims its own.
In the first night o' the frost
Beauty and bloom were lost,
And what is the stalk alone?
O! when will the rough winds blow,
And when will the blank white snow
Cover the dead from sight?
For, like the haze on the hill,
Lieth on thought and will
The spell of a past delight.
So, over the yellow leaves,
And the empty place of sheaves,
I follow my aimless feet.
O! love that is lost to me,
Are there ghosts that walk with thee
In this time o' the bitter-sweet?
O! what but the heart's desire
Can you have seen in the fire
Of the autumn woods ablaze!
And what but an ended tale
In the ashes few and pale
Of these Indian Summer days!
