I have forgot, who once had part
In autumn and in autumn's grief;
Still the red year illumes the leaf,
But not the silence of my heart.

When poplars take the passing fire
And fling it on the windy skies,
I listen, hushed with lone surmise,
In hope to hear a vanished lyre.

Bravely, on some autumnal morrow,
The topmost leaf shall flame and die;
But in my heart an alien sigh
Wakes only with an alien sorrow.

In vain the falling leaves caress
A lute among the roses lost;
And the frail touch of petals tossed
Will leave it mute and tremorless.