When gilded Autumn gathers the sheaf.

She was lily and pale as a sleeping moth

When the full moon bleaches the skies like cloth.

The grass was glad to be under her shoe,

The poppy proud to be floor unto

The silvering dance of her feet like dew!

... But her lord walks chill as a cloud of snow

Where the kings of the earth are bending the bow.

They are roaring the fame of the flying dart,

But he whispers low, in a place apart,