Autumn Sonnet

Your eyes like crystal ask me, clear and mute,

"in me, strange lover, what do you admire?"

Be lovely: hush: my heart, whom all things tire

Except the candour of the primal brute,

Would hide from you the secret burning it

And its black legend written out in fire,

O soother of the sleep that I respire!

Passion I hate, and I am hurt by wit.

Let us love gently. In his lair laid low,

Ambushed in shades, Love strings his fatal bow.

I know his ancient arsenal complete,

Crime, horror, lunacy — O my pale daisy!

Are we not suns in Autumn, silver-hazy,

O my so white, so snow-cold Marguerite?