fall poem

therefore i may not
let me move slowly through the street
daughter, thou art come to die
in mournful numbers
you are beautiful and faded
how shall i help to right the world that is going wrong
somewhere i read a strange, old, rusty tale
sad are they who know not love
a look is but a ray
it is true that you say the gods are more use to you than fairies
it tells of good old times