A little while to hold thee and to stand, By harvest-fields of bending golden corn; Then the predestined silence, and thine hand, Lost in the night, long and weary and forlorn. A little while to love thee, scarcely time To love thee well enough; then time to part, To fare through wintry fields alone and climb The frozen hills, not knowing where thou art. Short summer-time and then, my heart's desire, The winter and the darkness: one by one The roses fall, the pale roses expire Beneath the slow decadence of the sun. EXCHANGES All that I had I brought, Little enough I know; A poor rhyme roughly wrought, A rose to match thy snow: All that I had I brought. Little enough I sought: But a word compassionate, A passing glance, or thought, For me outside the gate: Little enough I sought. Little enough I found: All that you had, perchance! With the dead leaves on the ground, I dance the devil's dance. All that you had I found. TO A LADY ASKING FOOLISH QUESTIONS Why am I sorry, Chloe? Because the moon is far: And who am I to be straitened in a little earthly star? Because thy face is fair? And what if it had not been, The fairest face of all is the face I have not seen. Because the land is cold, and however I scheme and plot, I cannot find a ferry to the land where I am not. Because thy lips are red and thy breasts upbraid the snow? (There is neither white nor red in the pleasance where I go.) Because thy lips grow pale and thy breasts grow dun and fall? I go where the wind blows, Chloe, and am not sorry at all. RONDEAU Ah, Manon, say, why is it we Are one and all so fain of thee? Thy rich red beauty debonnaire In very truth is not more fair, Than the shy grace and purity That clothe the maiden maidenly; Her gray eyes shine more tenderly And not less bright than thine her hair; Ah, Manon, say! Expound, I pray, the mystery Why wine-stained lip and languid eye, And most unsaintly Maenad air, Should move us more than all the rare White roses of virginity? Ah, Manon, say! MORITURA A song of the setting sun! The sky in the west is red, And the day is all but done: While yonder up overhead, All too soon, There rises, so cold, the cynic moon. A song of a winter day! The wind of the north doth blow, From a sky that's chill and gray, On fields where no crops now grow, Fields long shorn Of bearded barley and golden corn. A song of an old, old man! His hairs are white and his gaze, Long bleared in his visage wan, With its weight of yesterdays, Joylessly He stands and mumbles and looks at me, A song of a faded flower! 'Twas plucked in the tender bud, And fair and fresh for an hour, In a lady's hair it stood. Now, ah, now, Faded it lies in the dust and low. LIBERA ME