Ah, woe is me, for Love hath lain asleep,
Hath lain too long in some Circean close—
Till on his dreaming wings the ruined rose
Fell lightly, and the rose-red leaves were deep.
Ah, wellaway, for love is overlate:
Far-wandering, alone, we know not where,
He found the white and purple poppies fair,
Nor heard the summer pass importunate.
Sweet Love, can we forgive thy loitering ?
The golden summer, like a dream at dawn,
Changes, and from our kindled eyes is gone,
And leaves grey autumn. . . . We have heard thy wing
But with a sound of sighing; heart on heart,
In our own sighs we hear thy wing depart.