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Like the voice of a golden star,

Heard from afar,

Perishing beauty calls

Out of the mist and rain;

Like the song of a silver wind

When the night is blind,

Murmuring music falls,

Never to rise again.

Voice of the leaves that die,

Whisper and sigh

Of ruinous gardens waning

Rose by ungathered rose.

Dolor of pines immortal,

That guard the portal

Of a lonely mead retaining

Blossoms that no man knows!

Voices of love and the autumn sun,

In my heart ye are one!

Fairer the petals that fall,

Dearer the beauty that dies,

And the pyres of autumn burning,

Clark Ashton Smith(1893-1961)