I sing not in these songs of full-blown Summer roses,
Trellised upon love’s gate, or through her garden spread,
Drunk with the mystic moon, as she her eyelids closes,
Resplendent at her waking from the sunrise red.
Mine are but aftergrowth, such as, while Autumn lingers,
She nurses with much care, behind some sheltering wall,
Which, loath to cut in bloom, her sympathetic fingers
Gather most tenderly, when the wan petals fall.
Geerhardus Vos, Charis: English Verses, (Princeton, NJ: Geerhardus Vos, 1931), 21.