Sonnet to Autumn

They say to me, thy clear and crystal eyes:

“Why dost thou love me so, strange lover mine?”

Be sweet, be still! My heart and soul despise

All save that antique brute-like faith of thine;

And will not bare the secret of their shame

To thee whose hand soothe me to slumbers long,

Nor their black legend write for thee in flame!

Passion I hate, a spirit does me wrong.

Let us love gently. Love, from his retreat,

Ambushed and shadowy, bends his fatal bow,

And I too well his ancient arrows know:

Crime, horror, folly. O pale Marguerite,

Thou art as I, a bright sun fallen low,

O my so white, my so cold Marguerite.