No longer young.
No longer fair.
The fields are worn,
the cottage bare,
where flurries bloom a winter dye
and blind the windows of my eyes.

Come, wave on wave,
come, north by south
to stalk the margins of this house
and urge the breeze to lay them near,
the copper eaves to find them tears.
Asking tin to hold and hold,
birches bent, to fold and fold,
but scatter you like leaves of Fall.
Asking me?
Nothing at all.

The window stalls another storm.
The bed recalls a hearth once warm,
yet neither know beyond the white
my perfect memories, tonight.
Within a flake of fragile love,
everything’s bright,
everything’s free;
even the bars inside of me.

Oh! What for you a winter gray
would break into a summer day.
Oh! What for clattering of chimes
a man could dream of better times:
A Spring more leaning close to you;
the kind of love I never knew...

The kind of love I never knew.