LXVI
What the west wind whispers
At the end of summer,
When the barley harvest
Ripens to the sickle,
Who can tell? 5
What means the fine music
Of the dry cicada,
Through the long noon hours
Of the autumn stillness,
Who can say? 10
How the grape ungathered
With its bloom of blueness
Greatens on the trellis
Of the brick-walled garden,
Who can know? 15
Yet I, too, am greatened,
Keep the note of gladness,
Travel by the wind's road,
Through this autumn leisure,--
By thy love. 20
LXVII
Indoors the fire is kindled;
Beechwood is piled on the hearthstone;
Cold are the chattering oak-leaves;
And the ponds frost-bitten.
Softer than rainfall at twilight, 5
Bringing the fields benediction
And the hills quiet and greyness,
Are my long thoughts of thee.
How should thy friend fear the seasons?
They only perish of winter 10
Whom Love, audacious and tender,
Never hath visited.
LXVIII
You ask how love can keep the mortal soul
Strong to the pitch of joy throughout the years.
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