Those pretty leaves rusted with rain,
That sigh with our hearts when the summer is o’er,
And that seem to wear traces of pain.
There is many a window with drapings of lace,
Where the clematis bloom is entwined,
Where the moss seems a part of the urn and the vase,
Where the awning with satin is lined,
Where Wealth sits aloof—garments dripping with pearls
Like a Mermaid’s—sole god of the sphere,
But the faces I love with their billows of curls