<b>Ephemera</b><br /><br />Your eyes that once were never weary of mine <br />Are bowed in sorrow under pendulous lids, <br />Because our love is waning."<br /><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 /><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 /><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 /><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.