The sycamore, by the heap of dead
Summer's last flowers that rot below,
Will suddenly in the stillness shed
A cockled leaf from a bud-tight bough:
So ghostlike the sound that I turn my head
As if at a whisper—at something said;
“What! And still happy? Thou!”

That is this captious phantom's way—
Omens, monitions, hints of fate,
On a quiet, air-sweet October day
Of beauty past estimate!
Is it age; or conscience; or mind now fey
At a world from love so far astray
That can only falter, “Wait”?
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