| Autumn is over the long leaves that love us, |
| And over the mice in the barley sheaves; |
| Yellow the leaves of the rowan above us, |
| And yellow the wet wild-strawberry leaves. |
| The hour of the waning of love has beset us, |
| And weary and worn are our sad souls now; |
| Let us part, ere the season of passion forget us, |
| With a kiss and a tear on thy drooping brow. |