Change Poem by James Logie Robertson

In the grey skies the sun is growing cold,
And all the beauty of the air is gone;
The fays have left their bowers; the flowers alone—
Sweet summer things which never can grow old—
Are bright, but meaningless; the ring of gold
No longer crowns the kingcup, for the wealth
Of all the fields is ravished; and the stealth
Of lovers' glances into violets' eyes
For meanings which these eyes no longer hold
Is sadly unavailing. But, O change
Saddest of all! the hearts I wont to prize
As nearest to my own are cold and strange,
And I am strange to them; and, when we meet,
Our words are commonplace, and few, and fleet.