Towards your brow where an autumn dreams freckled with russet scatterings, calm sister, and towards the sky, wandering, of your angelic eye my soul ascends: thus, white and true, within some melancholy garden a fountain sighs towards the Blue! -Towards October's softened Blue that pure and pale in the great pools mirrors its endless lassitude and, on dead water where the leaves wind-strayed in tawny anguish cleave cold furrows, lets the yellow sun in one long lingering ray crawl on. |