November Afternoon

Upon our heads

The oak leaves fall

Like silent benedictions

Closing Autumn's gorgeous ritual,

And we, upborne by worship,

Lift our eyes to the altar of distant hills.

Beloved

How can I know

What gods are yours,

How can I guess the visions of your spirit,

Or hear

The silent prayers your heart has said?

Only by this I feel

Your gods akin to mine,

That when our lips have met

On this last golden Autumn afternoon

They have confessed in silence

Our kisses were less precious than our dreams.

Today, our passion drowned in beauty,

We turn away our faces toward the hills

Where purple haze, old incense,

Spreads its veil.