I hear the orioleís always grieving voice,
And the rich summerís welcome loss I hear
In the sickleís serpentine hiss
Cutting the cornís ear tightly pressed to ear.
And the short skirts of the slim reapers
Fly in the wind like holiday pennants,
The clash of joyful cymbals, and creeping
From under dusty lashes, the long glance.
I donít expect loveís tender flatteries,
In premonition of some dark event,
But come, come and see this paradise
Where together we were blessed and innocent.