How can I see the light retreat
And hear the chirp of the crickets
Replace the Cicadian beat
Or feel the bite of the morning chill
Without mourning every joy I did greet
In every person I did meet
In my life and all the warm moments
I felt as mine in summertime?
A lesser man would be waiting
For the dead of winter
Already in the cold
If he had not felt the sadness of this loss before,
In a score of autumns,
Hundreds of days,
Thousands of times
Of reverie and regret
At some experience of forfeit.
Yet I do not count myself rich
For their remembrance,
Except that I can rise above the tears
And can love
From the silence and the solitude
Of the winter soon upon us.