The autumnal sorrow with the autumnal gold;
Tears shall go unregretted, and much pain
Gladly I take, if grief, in truth, and you
Go hand in hand.
Sappho
Ask me no more! For good
Were life, indeed, if every lonely bough
Could lure again the migrant nightingale!
—If all that luting music of first love
Could be recalled down years grown desolate!