Pausing at edge of her going,
Autumn, the maiden, turns,
Leans to the earth with ineffable
Gesture. Ah, more than
Spring's skies her skies shine
Tender and frailer
Bloom than plum-bloom or almond
Lies on her hillsides, her fields,
Misted, faint-flushing. Ah, lovelier
Is her refusal than
Yielding who pauses with grave
Backward smiling, with light
Unforgettable touch of
Fingers withdrawn. . . Pauses, lo
Vanishes. . fugitive, wistful. . .
'Ah me… Alas'
Ah me, my love's heart,
Like some frail flower, apart,
High, on the cliff's edge growing,
Touched by unhindered sun to sweeter showing,
Swung by each faint wind's faintest blowing,
But so, on the cliff's edge growing,
From man's reach aloof, apart:
Ah me, my love's heart!
Alack, alas, my lover,
As one who would discover
At world's end his path,
Nor knows at all what fae[umlaut]ry way he hath
Who turneth dreaming into faith
And followeth that near path
His own heart dareth to discover:
Alack, alas, my lover!