THESE little presents of your tenderness, Although less grand a gift than was your love, Are dear to me in this October stress Of wind and war and whirling leaves above. They comfort my soul's Autumn, and they prove How little time can do, to ban or bless, How much ourselves. You willed the years should move Back in their cycle. And behold, love, this! —Now, therefore, let us mark this fortunate day, And use it for our feast day. Every year Let us, when winds are high and the leaves fall, Hold in this house our love's memorial, Sitting thus hand in hand. Still let me lay As in the happy days, ere leaves were sere, My head upon your lap and call you "dear." | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DOMESDAY BOOK: HENRY BAKER, AT NEW YORK by EDGAR LEE MASTERS STANZAS IN MEMORY OF THE AUTHOR OF OBERMANN by MATTHEW ARNOLD A VALEDICTION: FORBIDDING MOURNING by JOHN DONNE DRIVING HOME THE COWS by KATE PUTNAM OSGOOD AN EARNEST SUIT [TO HIS UNKIND MISTRESS NOT TO FORESAKE HIM] by THOMAS WYATT AN IMITATION OF SPENCER by JOHN ARMSTRONG |