Leaves that had taken the sun and the dew
Of days she would fain forget.
She sat alone, and the firelight gleamed
On a little golden ring she wore,
And her tears fell fast for the hopes that beamed
In the years that come no more.
She drew the ring from her hand, and said,
“Why should I cling to the outward sign
Of a love that now in his heart lies dead,
Though it lives and burns in mine?”