The fairest things have fleetest end,Their scent survives their close:But the rose’s scent is bitternessTo her who loved the rose.

A Corymbus for AutumnHow are the veins of thee, Autumn, laden?Umbered juices,And pulpèd oozesPappy out of the cherry-bruises,Froth the veins of thee, wild, wild maiden.With hair that mustersIn globèd clusters,In tumbling clusters, like swarthy grapes,Round...

Summer set lip to earth’s bosom bare, and left the flushed print in a poppy there.