Vii

The evening falls, the moon is gold....

Before the day is spent Go out and wander in the garden walks And pluck with gentle hands The few remaining flowers that on their stalks Are not yet sadly bent toward the mould.

What matter if their foliage be wan? We still admire and love, And still their chalices are beautiful above The stems they rest upon.

You wander mid the borders here and there Along a lonely path, And the flowers you bear Tremble in your hand that shudders as it takes. And now your dreamy fingers Reverently shape the sere Roses wherein autumn lingers, Weaving them with many a tear, Into a crown of pale, clear flakes.

The last light dwells upon your eyes and brow And your slow steps are sad and quiet now....

Slowly, at the vesper, through the gloam, With empty hands you wandered home, Leaving, upon a little humid mound, On the path that to our doorway led, The pale circlet that your fingers bound. And I knew that in our garden perished, Where winds now pass like cohorts over-head, You would give flower again for one last time, To our youth that lies upon the ground Dead....