In golden gardens wilt deceitful gates
Of purple’s glory and consumption slow,
By sun’s late dust in shortest arcs they flow
To perfumed fruit on which no master waits.
The yellow silk of rugs leaves proof impure,
Assented lies of our last words and gaze,
The endless ponds of black lend parks their maze
And passion ripe their ready, yearned cure.
Yet only loss brings beauty to our hearts,
Enchanted force alone inspires love’s haste.
To those already with sweet lotus’s taste
The fawning autumn scent but fear imparts.