Or wistful face!—in the woodbine maze.
Valora of Verne—why, what cared she!
So the days went by, and the Summer wore
Its hot heart out; and, a mighty slayer,
The Autumn harried the land and shore,
And the world grew red with its wrecks; then grayer
Than ghosts of the dreams of the nevermore.
The sheaves of the Summer had long been bound;
The harvests of Autumn had long been past;