Xxvi

The golden ships of summer time That left this morning, mad with space, Return now from the blood-red west, Sad, with slackened pace.

Over the ocean now they come, Moved by listless, weary rowers; They seem like cradles in the sky Where sleep the autumn flowers.

Lilies, with your faded brows, You have felt the wind's keen breath; Only the flaming roses strive To live beyond all death.