So, we'll go no more a roving
    So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
    And the moon be still as bright.

For the sword outwears its sheath,
    And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
    And love itself have rest.

Though the night was made for loving,
    And the day returns too soon,
Yet we'll go no more a roving
    By the light of the moon.

Lady mine, so passing fair, 
Would’st thou roses for thy hair? 
Would’st thou lilies for thy hand?
Bid me pluck them where they stand. 
Those are warm and red to see, 
These are cold. Are both like thee? 
Brow of lily, lip of rose, 
Heart that no man living knows!
If one knelt beside thy feet, 
Would’st thou spurn, or love him, Sweet?

That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see'st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west;
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the deathbed whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourished by.
    This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,
    To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

His steady sails he never furls
At any time o' year,
And perching now on Winter's curls,
He whistles in his ear