Automne

Oh, glad and free was Love until the fall;
Then came a spirit on the frosty air
To chill with icy breath the summer's bloom,
And Love lies with the blossoms, blighted there.

He throve so kindly all the summer-time,—
Not warmer was the rose's crimson heart;
Dews fell to bless him, and the soft winds blew,
And gentle rains shed tears to ease his smart.

Through long June days and burning August noons,
The flowers and Love stole sweetness from the sun;
Then summer went,—the days grew brief and cold,
The short sweet lives of summer things were done.

No butterfly flits through November's gloom,
No bird-note quivers on its frosty air, —
Sweet Love had wings, and would have flown away,
But Autumn chilled him with the blossoms there.