Lyrics
65
(2)
So, in our passion's death,
When knowledge whispereth
With wise
Unholy eyes,
And thy sweet flowered mouth
Is grey with Autumn's drouth
And love
Dreams not thereof,
Our Day of Falling Leaves
Calls back the Spring, deceives
The sense
With transience.
THE REED-PLAYER
(After Macleod)
A hollow reed against his lips
He played a soaring strain,
That fled his dancing finger tips
Light as a swallow wheels and dips
Above the flowing grain.
