Sing flutes of harvest Where men rejoice; Sing rounds of reapers,— And my Love's voice. But when comes Winter And red fire roaring And ingle warm,— Sing first sad going Of friends that part; Then sing glad meeting,— And my Love's heart. THE PARADOX OF TIME. (A VARIATION ON RONSARD.) "Le temps s'en va, le temps s'en va, ma dame! Las! le temps non: mais NOUS nous en allons! ~IME goes, you say? Ah no! T Alas, Time stays, we go; Or else, were this not so, For Youth were always ours? Ours is the eyes' deceit Of men whose flying feet Lead through some landscape low ; We pass, and think we see The earth's fixed surface flee : Alas, Time stays,—we go! Once in the days of old, Your locks were curling gold, And mine had shamed the crow. Now, in the self-same stage, We've reached the silver age; Time goes, you say?—ah no! " snow "; Once, when my voice was strong, The hopes we used to know; Where are our old desires ?— Ah, where those vanished fires? Time goes, you say?—ah no! How far, how far, O Sweet, Lies in the even-glow! Now, on the forward way, Alas, Time stays,we go! |