When in Autumn We Sang
A failed love is like a wound sustained:
in its health there left is chronic ail.
I find hope in thoughts regained, but like a story
this love has waned; the moon fades
but clouds in sun remain
to block from me both rays and rain;
and so to feel the grey above and within,
I lament that had I not been myself now,
happiest I might've been:
in circumstances changed.