Autumn Quiet

The splendors of the summer-time are done,
And though the roses linger for a space.
Soon will they fade on paths and garden ways.
The russet leaves lie thickly, and the sun
Wakes late now, and his course is swiftly run.
No passionate summer storm the night dismays
With flame and thunder; these veiled nights and days
We would not seek, and yet we may not shun.

Then said a voice, I knew for Love's, " Even so
May thy life be, dost thou my will and hers, —
A passionless existence that shall flow
Like some tamed stream which men have wrought to go
Forever in one course; which no wind stirs
To speed or wreck the burden that it bears?"