Now, O now, in this brown land     Where Love did so sweet music make We two shall wander, hand in hand,     Forbearing for old friendship’ sake, Nor grieve because our love was gay Which now is ended in this way.

A rogue in red and yellow dress     Is knocking, knocking at the tree; And all around our loneliness     The wind is whistling merrily. The leaves⁠—they do not sigh at all When the year takes them in the fall.

Now, O now, we hear no more     The vilanelle and roundelay! Yet will we kiss, sweetheart, before     We take sad leave at close of day. Grieve not, sweetheart, for anything⁠— The year, the year is gathering.