The glowing amaranth droops upon its stalk,
The shivering birds are timorous and few,
And waifs of Summer strew th' untended walk;
With vague sweet forms I seem to pass and talk.
The ladies of those days in Summer's prime
Whose smiles prevailed not for the frown of Time.
Their little tripping feet reluctant turned
Down the dark paths they had not known before;
Behind them all the glow of living burned,
But they must enter thro' the gloomy door,