Xli Poems/Song 12
XII
cruelly, lovewalk the autumn long;the last flower in whose hair,thy lips are cold with songs
for which isfirst to wither, to pass?shallowness of sunlightfalls and, cruelly,across the grassComes themoon
love, walk theautumnlove, for the lastflower in the hair withers;thy hair is acold withdreams,love thou art frail
—walk the longness of autumnsmile dustily to the people,for winterwho crookedly care.