I

O N a day when Youth was winging
Lo! I heard a comrade singing —
And he beckoned me and beckoned
Till I joined him on his way;
" Come, " he said, " for Time is flying —
Age is hastening, Youth is dying —
Come and we will turn September
Back into the bloom of May! "

II

Oh! I thanked my Comrade kindly,
And I followed him right blindly,
He was such a merry fellow
As he sang his roundelay;
All my happy heart I showed him
For the fairy gift I owed him,
He who taught me that September
Still could hold the joy of May!

III

So, my Comrade, I was ready
With a spirit staunch and steady,
Quick to snatch the fickle moments
Of our fleeting holiday.
How we laughed, the hours whiling,
Though we knew that no beguiling
Could do aught but cheat September
With a masquerade of May!
. . . . . . . .

IV

Sometimes still I hear him calling,
But the autumn leaves are falling
And his voice has lost its lilting,
Luring music, blithe and gay —
And his song is faint and hollow,
For I may not rise and follow,
I who know that bleak November
Is a mockery of May!