“Nay, nay; not yet,” his Love replied,
“The harvests wait; the fields are wide.”
So, clouded like an autumn-sun,
Love veil’d her light, and was not won.
“Come, Love, be mine,” the old man said;
And meekly bow’d his whiten’d head;
Then, while it sank against his breast,
“O Love, has life not won its rest?”
“I come,” his Love at last replied;
And clasp’d him; but he only sigh’d.