Fugitive, wistful, <br />Pausing at edge of her going, <br />Autumn, the maiden, turns, <br />Leans to the earth with ineffable <br />Gesture. Ah, more than <br />Spring's skies her skies shine <br />Tender and frailer <br />Bloom than plum-bloom or almond <br />Lies on her hillsides, her fields, <br />Misted, faint-flushing. Ah, lovelier <br />Is her refusal than <br />Yielding who pauses with grave <br />Backward smiling, with light <br />Unforgettable touch of <br />Fingers withdrawn. . . Pauses, lo <br />Vanishes. . fugitive, wistful. . . <br /> <br />x <br />'Ah me… Alas' <br /> <br />(He) <br /> <br />Ah me, my love's heart, <br />Like some frail flower, apart, <br />High, on the cliff's edge growing, <br />Touched by unhindered sun to sweeter showing, <br />Swung by each faint wind's faintest blowing, <br />But so, on the cliff's edge growing, <br /> <br />From man's reach aloof, apart: <br />Ah me, my love's heart! <br /> <br />(She) <br /> <br />Alack, alas, my lover, <br />As one who would discover <br />At world's end his path, <br />Nor knows at all what fae[umlaut]ry way he hath <br />Who turneth dreaming into faith <br />And followeth that near path <br />His own heart dareth to discover: <br />Alack, alas, my lover!<br /><br />Adelaide Crapsey<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/autumn-137/
