II
I feel as murderers feel, who, having slain
Their love, laugh with red hands and do not care.
I took sweet Summer by her lovely hair,
Bent her white throat, and gladly saw the stain
Crimson her green leaf-gown of hill and plain.
I would not wait for her last kiss, nor spare
One splendid flying hour, for chill and fair
Autumn, my love, comes near me thro’ the rain.
Pale with mysterious wonder, her deep eyes
Are wells of wisdom; fugitive, astray
From a blue land that dreams beyond the skies.
’Tis done. I lay young Summer on her pyre,
And turning, burn thro’ distance to the day
That brings me to the lips of my desire.