How selflessly and skillfully the sun
who sang bright hours to rivers, glades, and towns
takes his appointed leave as, one by one,
the choristers of evening don their solemn silver gowns.

How suddenly the trees to brown are turned.
Fair summer heaves, demures, no longer cares.
Once more, her promises are raked and burned--
the quick and cunning frost again has caught her unawares.

How simply is the gathering of friends
dissolved, as each must hurry home alone.
With one last glass, a lingering laugh, it ends.
The well-worn chairs are left to feign a friendship of their own.

No doubt, her temple shines a jeweled trove
each carat gold would glimpse of lover's wealth,
shall I then try entreat her guarded cove;
and win a love, immured from suitor's stealth?

Her lair is wreathed by tears of bitter moat,
a soften rippling tide conceals my stride
each imprint leaves no cast or sandy float
with only faint demures to serve as guide.

For dense, uncertain fogging clouds her glow
as tho' her light's obscured, so none may find,
or love, in templed grief incensing woe
with none a paddled boat so left behind.

Her water's deep and cold, than to allow
tho' having tried, her lantern's brighter now.