Adelaide Crapsey


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Fugitive, wistful,

Pausing at edge of her going,

Autumn, the maiden, turns,

Leans to the earth with ineffable

Gesture. Ah, more than

Spring's skies her skies shine

Tender and frailer

Bloom than plum-bloom or almond

Lies on her hillsides, her fields,

Misted, faint-flushing. Ah, lovelier

Is her refusal than

Yielding who pauses with grave

Backward smiling, with light

Unforgettable touch of

Fingers withdrawn. . . Pauses, lo

Vanishes. . fugitive, wistful. . .

"Ah me... Alas"


Ah me, my love's heart,

Like some frail flower, apart,

High, on the cliff's edge growing,

Touched by unhindered sun to sweeter showing,

Swung by each faint wind's faintest blowing,

But so, on the cliff's edge growing,

From man's reach aloof, apart:

Ah me, my love's heart!


Alack, alas, my lover,

As one who would discover

At world's end his path,

Nor knows at all what fae[umlaut]ry way he hath

Who turneth dreaming into faith

And followeth that near path

His own heart dareth to discover:

Alack, alas, my lover!

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