A little while to walk with thee, dear child;
    To lean on thee my weak and weary head;
  Then evening comes: the winter sky is wild,
    The leafless trees are black, the leaves long dead.

  A little while to hold thee and to stand,
    By harvest-fields of bending golden corn;
  Then the predestined silence, and thine hand,
    Lost in the night, long and weary and forlorn.

  A little while to love thee, scarcely time
    To love thee well enough; then time to part,
  To fare through wintry fields alone and climb
    The frozen hills, not knowing where thou art.

  Short summer-time and then, my heart's desire,
    The winter and the darkness: one by one
  The roses fall, the pale roses expire
    Beneath the slow decadence of the sun.
- Earnest Dowson

Rose Moon: June 2026