BELATED LOVE
Reading edition
Ah, woe is me, for Love hath lain asleep, Hath lain too long in some Morphean close,— Till on his dreaming wings the ruined rose Fell lightly, and the rose-red leaves were deep. Alas, alas, 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. Ah, Love, can we forgive thy loitering? The golden Summer, as a dream foregone Is changed—till in our eyes the ashen dawn Of Autumn kindles.**** We have heard thy wing But with a sound of sighing; heart on heart, In our own sighs we hear thy wing depart.