This is polite society you're in.
In less than no time, tongue and pen,
Their murmur more like the sigh we sigh,
Fills me with fear I'll be left to my fate.
Two memories that long had lain
In snow and mist
A hundred miles away,
Is sadder than any words
That I might have sung.
Like a star fresh fallen out of the sky,
Its light poured softly in her lap,
Of almost too much love...
"I was looking for you-"
"No one can know how glad I am to find-"
"It is no miracle our mood is high."
With all this talk about the hope of youth,
When the boughs are right,
And by right divine-
Such auspices are very hard to read.
But one thing is sure,
To kiss and drink each other's breath
Is too much for the senses.
Then for years and years,
Our chance of being people newly born,
Of mingled butterfly and flower dust-
The play seems out for an almost infinite run;
Such as it is, it promises the prize.
The time was Autumn, but how anyone
Couldn't believe that so much black had come there,
Which shows how sad an accident may be.
Were days so very few?
There is no answer, I'm afraid.
It sent me to the graves the other day,
These things the mind has pondered on,
Enough to make a spirit moan.
A season-ending wind there blew,
Though it still could sing.
We saw leaves go to glory,
And forthwith found salvation in surrender.
He smiled for her to smile
And a cloud shadow crossed her face
And it had almost given him troubled dreams
How much time have we?
But something has to be left to God.
I could give all to Time except...except
The sorrow of having been left behind.
And lonely as it is, that loneliness,
It is nobody else's affair.
And for a moment all was plain
Then I arose and silently wandered home.