Shadow her head with your golden hands. The woods that are golden and red for a day Girdle the hills in a jewelled case, Like a girl's strange mirth, ere the quick death slay The beautiful life that he hath in chase. Darker and darker the shadows pace Out of the north to the southern sands, Ushers bearing the winter's mace: Keep them away with your woven hands. The yellow light lies on the wide wastes gray, More bitter and cold than the winds that race, From the skirts of the autumn, tearing away, This way and that way, the woodland lace. In the autumn's cheek is a hectic trace; Behind her the ghost of the winter stands; Sweet summer will moan in her soft gray place: Mantle her head with your glowing hands. Envoi. Till the slayer be slain and the spring displace The might of his arms with her rose-crowned bands,
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