Like some regret that, half-forgot, <br />Gropes into memory, <br />Here in a shadow-chosen spot <br />Thy music steals to me. <br /> <br />To soft for joy, too mild for grief, <br />Within the wood it dies— <br />Beauty too wayward and too brief <br />To grace our noonday skies. <br /> <br />The dusk enfolds me, and the year <br />Stands at the western gate. <br />Thy song, the symbol of a tear, <br />Echoes the cry 'Too late!' <br /> <br />'Too late!' cries back the conscious heart, <br />As one that in dismay <br />Had seen the affronted gods depart <br />And could not bid them stay; <br /> <br />Nor could retain from Time's control <br />A moment or a flow'r, <br />Save when in woodlands of the soul <br />Such strains endure an hour.<br /><br />George Sterling<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/an-autumn-thrush/
