We speak, ah much, pale Corydon of thee,

Far flung in distant lands and evil times.

We cannot see

The pallid stars above Ionian slopes

Or know the mimes

And their significance that thou hast known—

The dried leaves blown

In drear array among the autumn sheaves

Are our distorted hopes.

We cannot sing. Ah, now return again

Singer and shepherd of the lonely past.

Our autumn pain

Is vanity; no immemorial things

Are ours at last.

Only the bitterness of harvest wind,

Impetuously blind,

And unimagined lyrics of despair

Are ours in deficit of countless springs.