BELATED LOVE
Ah, woe is me, for Love hath lain asleep,Hath lain too long in some Morphean close,—Till on his dreaming wings the ruined roseFell 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 foregoneIs changed—till in our eyes the ashen dawnOf Autumn kindles.**** We have heard thy wingBut with a sound of sighing; heart on heart,In our own sighs we hear thy wing depart.