The sun on the tide, the peach on the bough,
The blue smoke over the hill,
And the shadows trailing the valley-side,
Make up the autumn day.
Ah, no, not half! Thou art not here 5
Under the bronze beech-leaves,
And thy lover’s soul like a lonely child
Roams through an empty room.
LXXIV
If death be good,
Why do the gods not die?
If life be ill,
Why do the gods still live?
If love be naught, 5
Why do the gods still love?
If love be all,
What should men do but love?
LXXV
Tell me what this life means,
O my prince and lover,
With the autumn sunlight
On thy bronze-gold head?
With thy clear voice sounding 5
Through the silver twilight,—
What is the lost secret
Of the tacit earth?
LXXVI
Ye have heard how Marsyas,
In the folly of his pride,
Boasted of a matchless skill,—
When the great god’s back was turned;