now, o now, in this brown land

where love did so sweet music make

we two shall wander, hand in hand,

forbearing for old friendship’ sake,

nor grieve because our love was gay

which now is ended in this way.

a rogue in red and yellow dress

is knocking, knocking at the tree;

and all around our loneliness

the wind is whistling merrily.

the leaves—they do not sigh at all

when the year takes them in the fall.

now, o now, we hear no more

the vilanelle and roundelay!

yet will we kiss, sweetheart, before

we take sad leave at close of day.

grieve not, sweetheart, for anything—

the year, the year is gathering.