FRIENDSHIP AFTER LOVE
After the fierce midsummer all ablazeHas burned itself to ashes, and expiresIn the intensity of its own fires,There come the mellow, mild, St. Martin daysCrowned with the calm of peace, but sad with haze;So after Love has led us, till he tiresOf his own throes, and torments, and desiresComes large-eyed friendship; with a restful gaze,He beckons us to follow, and acrossCool, verdant vales we wander free from care—Is it a touch of frost lies in the air?Why are we haunted with a sense of loss?We do not wish the pain back, or the heat;And yet, and yet, these days are incomplete.Ella Wheeler Wilcox
After the fierce midsummer all ablazeHas burned itself to ashes, and expiresIn the intensity of its own fires,There come the mellow, mild, St. Martin daysCrowned with the calm of peace, but sad with haze;So after Love has led us, till he tiresOf his own throes, and torments, and desiresComes large-eyed friendship; with a restful gaze,He beckons us to follow, and acrossCool, verdant vales we wander free from care—Is it a touch of frost lies in the air?Why are we haunted with a sense of loss?We do not wish the pain back, or the heat;And yet, and yet, these days are incomplete.Ella Wheeler Wilcox
After the fierce midsummer all ablazeHas burned itself to ashes, and expiresIn the intensity of its own fires,There come the mellow, mild, St. Martin daysCrowned with the calm of peace, but sad with haze;So after Love has led us, till he tiresOf his own throes, and torments, and desiresComes large-eyed friendship; with a restful gaze,He beckons us to follow, and acrossCool, verdant vales we wander free from care—Is it a touch of frost lies in the air?Why are we haunted with a sense of loss?We do not wish the pain back, or the heat;And yet, and yet, these days are incomplete.
After the fierce midsummer all ablaze
Has burned itself to ashes, and expires
In the intensity of its own fires,
There come the mellow, mild, St. Martin days
Crowned with the calm of peace, but sad with haze;
So after Love has led us, till he tires
Of his own throes, and torments, and desires
Comes large-eyed friendship; with a restful gaze,
He beckons us to follow, and across
Cool, verdant vales we wander free from care—
Is it a touch of frost lies in the air?
Why are we haunted with a sense of loss?
We do not wish the pain back, or the heat;
And yet, and yet, these days are incomplete.
Ella Wheeler Wilcox