From collected poems, 1911
Song (To C. L.)
The corn is garnered, the swallows fly,
The leaves fall soft on their wintry bed.
There was a dream in the summer sky,
And song, as soft as a rose’s sigh.
Why should I linger? the dream has fled.
The song is silent, the rose is dead,
The ghost of the rose is in the air,
The dead song speaks in the moaning sea;
After the dream is the long despair.
The endless dusk and the unheard prayer;
“O Death come quickly and set me free,
My friend is no longer kind to me.”
