by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
After the summer glory has departed,
After the sun slides low adown the skies,
After each snowy rose, and the red-hearted.
Droops in the chilling blast, and faints, and dies,
When the brown bee no longer seeks the clover,
But flies away, and hides in his honeyed den,
And from the bleak hills cutting winds blow over,
Full of keen darts -- ah, will you love me then?
Or is it but the passion heat of Summer,
That you mistake for love within your heart?
And will not Winter, that unwelcome comer,
With his cold, scornful sneers, make it depart?
Have not the subtle odors of the flowers
Drugged you, and made you drunk with rare perfumes?
And when the winter crashes through the bowers,
Will not your love fade, with the fading blooms?
If so, I will not listen to your wooing;
And I will turn from words and glances sweet.
Because I will not hear a drunkard's sueing --
Drunken with rose-scents, and the summer heat.
But if you woo me, in sound mind, and reason,
And can convince me fully it is so,
And that your love will last through any season,
Why then, my answer will not quite be -- No.
Hauser & Storey, Milwaukee