AUTUMN
As Lais, Corinth's fairest courtesan
Knowing her beauty had begun to fade
Lest any matron, any shrill-voiced maid
Should mock her, straight renounced all love of man—
And hung her polished silver mirror high
On Venus' statue where it might reflect
Only the clouds with changing colors decked,
The azure, snow and opal of the sky—
So now doth autumn turn away her head
To hide the touch of frost on velvet-red
Of dahlias, on the perfumed cream and pink
Of garden-asters on the maples' gold,
And dreading her own image to behold
Fills every pool with dead leaves to the brink.
Knowing her beauty had begun to fade
Lest any matron, any shrill-voiced maid
Should mock her, straight renounced all love of man—
And hung her polished silver mirror high
On Venus' statue where it might reflect
Only the clouds with changing colors decked,
The azure, snow and opal of the sky—
So now doth autumn turn away her head
To hide the touch of frost on velvet-red
Of dahlias, on the perfumed cream and pink
Of garden-asters on the maples' gold,
And dreading her own image to behold
Fills every pool with dead leaves to the brink.
NARCISSUS
Frail gold of locks unbound the timid breeze
Scarce moves at all, and wide blue eyes that seem
To draw into their depths the misty gleam
From drowning buds of iris. Now, he sees
Star-poised against the sombre loom of trees
Whiteness of brow and neck, red lips apart
As though to tempt from the sweet-brier's heart
A poolward swirl of over-daring bees.
One elbow sunk in argent-beaded cress,
He lies; nor heeds the glinting dragonfly
That hangs above his drooping head so light—
A silver shred from some brook-naiad's tress
But wastes his being in sigh on perfumed sigh
And dwindles to a flower starry white.
Scarce moves at all, and wide blue eyes that seem
To draw into their depths the misty gleam
From drowning buds of iris. Now, he sees
Star-poised against the sombre loom of trees
Whiteness of brow and neck, red lips apart
As though to tempt from the sweet-brier's heart
A poolward swirl of over-daring bees.
One elbow sunk in argent-beaded cress,
He lies; nor heeds the glinting dragonfly
That hangs above his drooping head so light—
A silver shred from some brook-naiad's tress
But wastes his being in sigh on perfumed sigh
And dwindles to a flower starry white.
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