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 foregone

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.