I thought to walk with thee upon a day --
in summer, through the greenly breathing field,
or down the river-way; we'd go, and wield
our tongues in fierce debate (but only play.)
Or haps we'd stroll along beside the bay,
come fall, and sit upon the harbor-shield
of rocks, and watch the tide, and sweetly yield
to sea-bird songs and salty splashing spray.

But summer went without thee, o my love,
and all the leaves of fall are gone as well:
the winter's chill has stolen them away.
I found thee late, beneath a shrouded day --
no time is left to us, and who can tell
when we shall walk, the gentle sun above?


Yes, I know it's in need of work. Comments, anyone?