Maurice Browne

DEEP-BOSOMED dusk obscures

The sun’s last ray,

And night descending lures

Westward the day.

Naught that we love endures

For aye.

Among the withered leaves

The pale winds sigh,

And shrouded twilight weaves

Her memories wistfully;

Summer but gilds his sheaves

To die.

Flowers that the morn found bright

At evening fade;

Hours that have taken flight

Can ne’er be stayed:

Rome was eternal once,

Helen a maid.