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The Faun, the Centaur harbours in you yet,
Thrilling responsive to the night-fall's spell,
As passing to the wizard woods you find
A philtre in the drenching of the dew;
And ever waking or sleeping you shall hear
A soft wind blowing from behind the moon,
From past the sunset, from beyond the stars,
Whispering you remembrance and regret,
A sweet regret, a poignant memory
That once you met with Beauty face to face,
And that She pass'd from you upon Her way!
But what blows hither as the night-wind wakes?
Ombrage:
The first sun-wither'd leaves come rustling down,
Approaching Autumn's avant-couriers
Clad in the russet of his liveries,
Heralding in tumultuous Equinox.
