James Logie Robertson Poems >>
Change

In the grey skies the sun is growing cold,
 And all the beauty of the air is gone;
 The fays have left their bowers; the flowers alone-
 Sweet summer things which never can grow old-
 Are bright, but meaningless; the ring of gold
 No longer crowns the kingcup, for the wealth
 Of all the fields is ravished; and the stealth
 Of lovers' glances into violets' eyes
 For meanings which these eyes no longer hold
 Is sadly unavailing. But, O change
 Saddest of all! the hearts I wont to prize
 As nearest to my own are cold and strange,
 And I am strange to them; and, when we meet,
 Our words are commonplace, and few, and fleet.