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Cried I: ‘Its sky at sunset is far more fair than this.’
Then I thought, my love's cheek flushes too ready 'neath my kiss,
That the gentle voice replying spoke love too timidly,
And the shy hands culling blossoms had no caress for me.
I tired of roses' perfume and the song the wild-birds sung,
So I left her in the noon-time, when Summer yet was young.

‘Neath the sunset skies of Autumn, all the heath-clad hills flushed red;
Sweet the lark his matins singing in the blue sky over-head,
And the languid breeze was perfumed by a rose's stolen breath;
'Twas the last white bud of Summer that escaped the hand of death,
And my sweet, I feared to meet her for my yesterday of scorn;
Then I flung myself beside her as she knelt amid the corn.
She only said: ’To red and gold grew the green young leaf of Spring.
The rose filled the dead cowslip's throne; now poppy reigns a king.‘