Xxxvii

'Twas in a world of living leaves That we two reaped and bound our sheaves: They were of white roses and red, And in the scything they were dead.

Now the high Autumn flames afield, And what is all his golden yield To that we took, and sheaved, and bound In the green dusk that gladdened round?

Yet must the memory grieve and ache Of that we did for dear love's sake, But may no more under the sun, Being, like our summer, spent and done.