The day is still, and clear,
And yet, your distant music’s in my head;
For like the turning leaves
You changed your colors with the days instead
Of keeping to a summer heart –
Of clinging to old reason –
For you, a melody, an art,
Became a season.

And when your story’s told,
The head that hears will wear a certain look
Of kinship to a soul
Once recognized, ne’er yet again mistook;
For lo, the lake is sparkling –
A coin fresh from the minter –
And we must wait for our day as
The autumn waits

For winter