When our Autumn comes, bearing Winter with it, let us keep on though: not of Spring to come, belonging to another, nor yet of Summer, when we're dead, but of what's left of what is passing--- The yellowing of these leaves now making them different.

Recalling who I was,
I see somebody else.
In memory the past 
    becomes the present.
Who I was is somebody I love,
Yet only in a dream.
The longing that torments me now
is not from me nor by the 
    past invoked,
But his who lives in me
    behind blind eyes.
Nothing knows me but the moment.
My own memory is nothing,
    and I feel that who I am and who I was
are two contrasting dreams.