| ‘Your eyes that once were never weary of mine |
| Are bowed in sorrow under pendulous lids, |
| Because
our love is waning.’ |
| And then she: |
| ‘Although our love is waning, let us stand |
| By the lone border of the
lake once more, |
| Together in that hour of gentleness |
| When the poor tired child, Passion, falls asleep: |
| How far away the stars seem, and how far |
| Is our first kiss, and ah, how old my heart!’ |
| Pensive they
paced along the faded leaves, |
| While slowly he whose hand held hers replied: |
| ‘Passion has often worn
our wandering hearts.’ |
|
|
|
|
| The woods were round them, and the yellow leaves |
| Fell like faint meteors in the
gloom, and once |
| A rabbit old and lame limped down the path; |
| Autumn was over him: and now they stood |
| On the lone border of the lake once more: |
| Turning, he saw that she had thrust dead leaves |
| Gathered in
silence, dewy as her eyes, |
| In bosom and hair. |
| ‘Ah, do not mourn,’ he said, |
| ‘That we are tired, for other
loves await us; |
| Hate on and love through unrepining hours. |
| Before us lies eternity; our souls |
| Are love,
and a continual farewell.’ |