WEAVE me a rhyme to-day:
No pleasant roundelay,
But some vague, restless yearning' of the heart
Shaped with but little art
To broken numbers, that shall flow
Most dreamily and slow.
I think no merry fancy should belong
To this day's song.

Look how the maple stands,
Waving its bleeding hands
With such weird gestures; and the petals fall
From the dry roses—pale, nor longer sweet:
And by the garden - wall
The unclasped vines, and all
These sad dead leaves, a-rustle at our feet.

Dear bodies of the flowers,
From which the little fragrant souls are fled,
Beside you, lying dead,
We say, 'Another summer shall be ours
When all these naked boughs shall flush and flame
With fresh, young blossoms.' Aye, but not the same!
And that is saddest. By the living bloom,
Who cares for last year's beauty — in the tomb?

Spring, blossom, and decay.
Ah, poet, sing thy day —
So brief a day, alas! . . . .
Beloved, and shall we pass
Beneath the living grass,
Out from the glad, warm splendor of the sun?
A little dust about some old tree's root,
With all our voices mute,
And all our singing done?