There come the mellow, mild, St. Martin days
Crowned with the calm of peace, but sad with haze;
So after Love has led us, till he tires
Of his own throes, and torments, and desires
Comes large-eyed friendship; with a restful gaze,
He beckons us to follow, and across
Cool, verdant vales we wander free from care—
Is it a touch of frost lies in the air?
Why are we haunted with a sense of loss?
We do not wish the pain back, or the heat;