Chapter XXVI

The golden ships of summer time
That left this morning, mad with space,
Return now from the blood-red west,
Sad, with slackened pace.

Over the ocean now they come,
Moved by listless, weary rowers;
They seem like cradles in the sky
Where sleep the autumn flowers.

Lilies, with your faded brows,
You have felt the wind's keen breath;
Only the flaming roses strive
To live beyond all death.

AFTERNOON

What matter for their fullest flower
October days or April bright?
They have but simple wish to drink,
Even the sanguine, light;

On sombre days, when under clouds
Haggardly the heavens hide,
They will, for one lone ray of sun,
Exalt at Christmastide.

You, oh spirits, live like them!
They have not pride that lilies feel,
But hold within their folds a sacred
And immortal zeal.