Autumn

Fugitive, wistful, Pausing at edge of her going, Autumn the maiden turns, Leans to the earth with ineffable Gesture. Ah, more than Spring's skies her skies shine Tender, and frailer Bloom than plum-bloom or almond Lies on her hillsides, her fields Misted, faint-flushing. Ah, lovelier Is her refusal than Yielding, who pauses with grave Backward smiling, with light Unforgettable touch of Fingers withdrawn. . . Pauses, lo Vanishes . . . fugitive, wistful. . . .