'YOUR eyes that once were never weary of mine <br />Are bowed in sotrow under pendulous lids, <br />Because our love is waning.' <br />And then She: <br />'Although our love is waning, let us stand <br />By the lone border of the lake once more, <br />Together in that hour of gentleness <br />When the poor tired child, passion, falls asleep. <br />How far away the stars seem, and how far <br />Is our first kiss, and ah, how old my heart!' <br />Pensive they paced along the faded leaves, <br />While slowly he whose hand held hers replied: <br />'Passion has often worn our wandering hearts.' <br />The woods were round them, and the yellow leaves <br />Fell like faint meteors in the gloom, and once <br />A rabbit old and lame limped down the path; <br />Autumn was over him: and now they stood <br />On the lone border of the lake once more: <br />Turning, he saw that she had thrust dead leaves <br />Gathered in silence, dewy as her eyes, <br />In bosom and hair. <br />'Ah, do not mourn,' he said, <br />'That we are tired, for other loves await us; <br />Hate on and love through unrepining hours. <br />Before us lies eternity; our souls <br />Are love, and a continual farewell.'<br /><br />William Butler Yeats<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ephemera/
