SONNET OF AUTUMN

 THEY say to me, thy clear and crystal eyes: 
"Why dost thou love me so, strange lover mine?" 
Be sweet, be still! My heart and soul despise 
All save that antique brute-like faith of thine; 

And will not bare the secret of their shame 
To thee whose hand soothes me to slumbers long, 
Nor their black legend write for thee in flame! 
Passion I hate, a spirit does me wrong.
 

Let us love gently.
 Love, from his retreat, 
Ambushed and shadowy, bends his fatal bow, 
And I too well his ancient arrows know: 

Crime, horror, folly.
 O pale marguerite, 
Thou art as I, a bright sun fallen low, 
O my so white, my so cold Marguerite.

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