The short dark day, the chill of sombre skies,
Are far less poignant to my brooding heart
Than Spring with all her pregnant mysteries,
And promises in which he has no part.
Autumn is kind to one whose soul must weep,
While radiant Spring with callous cruelty
Awakens every longing that would sleep,
To stir once more the joy that was to be.
Autumn! You are the healer, for in truth
You seem to say, all things must change and die.
Spring slays me with the memory of his youth,
Cheats me with happiness that passed me by—
But Autumn murmurs, with pale lips and cold,
“Death alone spares us, for we soon grow old!”