Autumn

In her arms unconscious lying,Cytherea's love is dying.On the hill and in the valley,Through the grove and sun-lit alley,Drooping flower and fading leafShare her grief.But in realms of gloom and nightProserpina wreathes her hair,And a gleam of tender lightSeems to pierce the darkness there:"Ah!" she sighs, "I long have waitedWith the calm of hopeless pain,But to me, the sorrow-fated,Comes the lost one back again!Lovely things that seem to dieHither now will quickly hie,And to-morrow, in the gloomOf this sad and sunless tomb,Butterflies will lightly hover,As o'er meadows fair;" she saith,"For Adonis brings the cloverWith his breath!"