cruelly,love 
walk the autumn long; 
the last flower in whose hair, 
thy lips are cold with songs 

for which is 
first to wither,to pass? 
shallowness of sunlight 
falls and,cruelly, 
across the grass 
Comes the 
moon 

love,walk the 
autumn 
love,for the last 
flower in the hair withers; 
thy hair is acold with 
dreams, 
love thou art frail 

—walk the longness of autumn 
smile dustily to the people, 
for winter 
who crookedly care.