Love’s Visions Poem by John William Inchbold

At last are fled the leaves that lingered long,
The sun at last withholds his parting glow,
The clouds move onward like a funeral song,
Or hopeless hang o'er all the water's flow.
I know the flowers, that joined sad days to bliss,
Shall die by this night's keen and piercing frost;
For sweetness fades, though sadness ever is!
So rare are joys to find, so soon are lost!
I could contented be, almost to yield
My joy like latest flower to Winter's sting,
And sullen searching moan from wood and field,
That saddens life, and mars our harvesting,
But then I close mine eyes and thou art near,
Coming as violets come when Spring is here.