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O love, turn
from the changing sea and gaze,
Down these grey
slopes, upon the year grown old,
A-dying 'mid the
autumn-scented haze
That hangeth o'er the hollow in
the wold,
Where the wind-bitten ancient elms infold
Grey church, long barn, orchard, and red-roofed stead,
Wrought in dead days for men a long while dead.
Come down, O love; may not our hands still meet,
Since still we live today, forgetting June,
Forgetting May, deeming October sweet? -
- Oh,
hearken! hearken! through the afternoon
The grey
tower sings a strange old tinkling tune!
Sweet,
sweet, and sad, the toiling year's last breath,
To
satiate of life, to strive with death.
And we too
-will it not be soft and kind,
That rest from life,
from patience, and from pain,
That rest from bliss we
know not when we find,
That rest from love which
ne'er the end can gain?
- Hark! how the tune swells,
that erewhile did wane!
Look up, love! -Ah! cling
close, and never move!
How can I have enough of life
and love?
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