Page:This Canada of ours and other poems.djvu/19

Rh And love sees, broken-hearted, The fate that's pictured there.

The brush that paints so brightly No mortal artist wields; He touches all things lightly, But sweeps the broadest fields. The fairest flowers are chosen To wither at his breath; The hand is cold and frozen That paints those hues of death.

We wandered back together, With hearts but ill at ease, In mellow autumn weather, Past autumn-tinted trees; The breath of soft September Left fragrance in the air, And well we both remember The love that ended there.