Nor heard the Summer pass importunate.
Ah, Love, can we forgive thy loitering?
The golden Summer, as a dream foregone
Is changed—till in our eyes the ashen dawn
Of Autumn kindles.**** We have heard thy wing
But with a sound of sighing; heart on heart,
In our own sighs we hear thy wing depart.
THE ABSENCE OF THE MUSE
O, Muse, where lingerest thou? In any land