Song of our last meeting

My breast was chilled through, oh so helpless,
But my steps were still very light.
I picked up the glove for the left hand
And put it by chance on the right.

It seemed like the steps were so many,
But I knew there were only three!
Fall's whisper, with maple-trees blending,
Requested: "Now die with me!

I'm deceived by this my specious
Fate far too fickle, untrue."
I replied: "My precious, my precious!
Me too. I shall die with you..."

'Tis the song of our very last meeting.
I glanced at the house now all dark.
Only candles in the bedroom were burning
With a nondescript yellowish spark.