Ah! red-leafed time hath driven out the rose And crimson dew is fallen on the leaf Ere ever yet the cold white wheat be sown That hideth all earth’s green and sere and red; The Moon-flower’s fallen and the branch is bare, Holding no honey for the starry bees; The Maiden turns to her dark lord’s demesne. II Fairer than Enna’s field when Ceres sows The stars of hyacinth and puts off grief, Fairer than petals on May morning blown Through apple-orchards where the sun hath shed His brighter petals down to make them fair; Fairer than these the Poppy-crowned One flees, And Joy goes weeping in her scarlet train. III The faint damp wind that, ere the even, blows Piling the west with many a tawny sheaf, Then when the last glad wavering hours are mown Sigheth and dies because the day is sped; This wind is like her and the listless air Wherewith she goeth by beneath the trees, The trees that mock her with their scarlet stain. IV Love that is born of Time and comes and goes! Love that doth hold all noble hearts in fief! As red leaves follow where the wind hath flown, So all men follow Love when Love is dead. O Fate of Wind! O Wind that cannot spare, But drivest out the Maid, and pourest lees Of all thy crimson on the wold again, V Korè my heart is, let it stand sans gloze! Love’s pain is long, and lo, love’s joy is brief! My heart erst alway sweet is bitter grown; As crimson ruleth in the good green’s stead, So grief hath taken all mine old joy’s share And driven forth my solace and all ease Where pleasure bows to all-usurping pain. VI Crimson the hearth where one last ember glows! My heart’s new winter hath no such relief, Nor thought of Spring whose blossom he hath known Hath turned him back where Spring is banished. Barren the heart and dead the fires there, Blow! O ye ashes, where the winds shall please, But cry, “Love also is the Yearly Slain.” VII Be sped, my Canzon, through the bitter air! To him who speaketh words as fair as these, Say that I also know the “Yearly Slain.” KORÈ From the “Poems of Frederic Manning,” published by John Murray, with whose permission we here reprint it. Yea, she hath passed hereby and blessed the sheaves And the great garths and stacks and quiet farms, And all the tawny and the crimson leaves, Yea, she hath passed with poppies in her arms Under the star of dusk through stealing mist And blest the earth and gone while no man wist. With slow reluctant feet and weary eyes And eyelids heavy with the coming sleep, With small breasts lifted up in stress of sighs, She passed as shadows pass amid the sheep While the earth dreamed and only I was ware Of that faint fragrance blown from her soft hair.