Sonnet of Autumn

  They say to me, thy clear and crystal eyes:
  "Why dost thou love me so, strange lover mine?"
  Be sweet, be still! My heart and soul despise
  All save that antique brute-like faith of thine;

  And will not bare the secret of their shame
  To thee whose hand soothes me to slumbers long,
  Nor their black legend write for thee in flame!
  Passion I hate, a spirit does me wrong.

  Let us love gently. Love, from his retreat,
  Ambushed and shadowy, bends his fatal bow,
  And I too well his ancient arrows know:

  Crime, horror, folly. O pale marguerite,
  Thou art as I, a bright sun fallen low,
  O my so white, my so cold Marguerite.