Classic Poem

It is late, the wind is cold, it rattles the long casements,
Blows through thin clefts in the close-grown cypress wall.
The roar of the wind scatters words; the heart falters.
It is late for love, summer is ended, the dry leaves fall.

The purple grapes are gathered and crushed, the harvest is over.
Their leaves are metal, burnished copper and gold.
Silver white the olives stand in the sunlight;
Earth has become as bronze and iron, unyielding and cold.

Why should the weak heart fail for the sound of your singing?
The shutters are barred, the charcoal smokes on the hearth.
Put by the pleading of eyes and hands, it is late for loving.
The gentle season is done; I lie cold as the hard earth.

Stolen kisses are sweet as cooked wine. They are sweeter
For the drop of gall that lies in the depth of the cup.
But the wine is spilled, the goblet falls unheeded.
Put by your song, walk past my window, do not look up!