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Then she sighed, with blue eyes tearful and quivering lips that smiled,
‘And to womanhood's perfection came the promise of the child.
But the rose and cowslip withered, and the poppy's death is nigh,
For the changing leaf that lingers there remains nought but to die.
Through the bitter winds of Winter let me shelter by thy side;
Prithee, stray not with the Autumn, O my love ! unsatisfied.’

So I stayed, but soon grew weary—man's discontent, I ween—
Of the woods all clad in splendour, rarest red, and gold, and green;
Of the hands that toiling for me pressed the red juice from the vine,
And brought the fragrant peaches that I might not trouble mine;
Of the fawn-like eyes that watched me, ever speaking of their love;
Of the neck I once thought softer than the white breast of a dove.
So I rose up from my resting ere the Autumn days were dead,