‘Your eyes that once were never weary of mine

    Are bowed in sorrow under pendulous lids，

    Because our love is waning.‘

    And then she：

    ‘Although our love is waning， let us stand

    By the lone border of the lake once more，

    Together in that hour of gentleness

    When the poor tired child， Passion， falls asleep：

    How far away the stars seem， and how far

    Is our first kiss， and ah， how old my heart！‘

    Pensive they paced along the faded leaves，

    While slowly he whose hand held hers replied：

    ‘Passion has often worn our wandering hearts.’

    The woods were round them， and the yellow leaves

    Fell like faint meteors in the gloom， and once

    A rabbit old and lame limped down the path；

    Autumn was over him： and now they stood

    On the lone border of the lake once more：

    Turning， he saw that she had thrust dead leaves

    Gathered in silence， dewy as her eyes，

    In bosom and hair.

    ‘Ah， do not mourn，’ he said，

    ‘That we are tired， for other loves await us；

    Hate on and love through unrepining hours.

    Before us lies eternity； our souls

    Are love， and a continual farewell.‘