ME, deep-tressèd meadows, take to your loyal keeping,
Hard by the swish of sickles ever in Aulon sleeping,
Philophron, old and tired, and glad to be done with reaping!
V
UPON thy level tomb, till windy winter morn,
The fallen leaves delay;
But plain and pure their trace is, when themselves are torn
From delicate frost away.
As here to transient frost the absent leaf is, such
Thou wert and art to me:
So on my passing life is thy long-passèd touch,
O dear Alcithoë!