An Answer

Come, let us go into the lane, love mine, 
And mark and gather what the Autumn grows 
The creamy elder mellowed into wine, 
The russet hip that was the pink-white rose; 
The amber woodbine into rubies turned, 
The blackberry that was the bramble born; 
Nor let the seeded clematis be spurned, 
Nor pearls, that now are corals, of the thorn. 
Look! what a lovely posy we have made 
From the wild garden of the waning year. 
So when, dear love, your summer is decayed, 
Beauty more touching than is clustered here 
Will linger in your life, and I shall cling 
Closely as now, nor ask if it be Spring.