Chapter VII: The evening falls, the moon is gold

Before the day is spent
Go out and wander in the garden walks
And pluck with gentle hands
The few remaining flowers that on their stalks
Are not yet sadly bent toward the mould.

What matter if their foliage be wan?
We still admire and love,
And still their chalices are beautiful above
The stems they rest upon.

You wander mid the borders here and there
Along a lonely path,
And the flowers you bear
Tremble in your hand that shudders as it takes.
And now your dreamy fingers
Reverently shape the sere
Roses wherein autumn lingers,
Weaving them with many a tear,
Into a crown of pale, clear flakes.

The last light dwells upon your eyes and brow
And your slow steps are sad and quiet now....

Slowly, at the vesper, through the gloam,
With empty hands you wandered home,
Leaving, upon a little humid mound,
On the path that to our doorway led,
The pale circlet that your fingers bound.
And I knew that in our garden perished,
Where winds now pass like cohorts over-head,
You would give flower again for one last time,
To our youth that lies upon the ground
Dead....