From Wikisource
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.
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