A Memory

Adown the grass-grown paths we strayed,     The evening cowslips oped     Their yellow eyes to look at her,     The love-sick lilies moped     With envy that she rather chose     To take a creamy-petalled rose     And lean it gainst her ebon hair,     All in that garden fair.     A languid breeze, with stolen scent     Of box-bloom in his grasp,     Sighed out his longing in her ear,     And with his dying gasp     Scattered the perfume at her feet     To blend with others not less sweet;     He loved her, but she did not care,     All in that garden fair.     The rose she honoured nodded down,     His comrades burst with spite:     Poor fool! he knew not he was doomed     To barely last the night;     Are hearts to her but as that flower,     The plaything of a careless hour,     To lacerate and never spare     All in that garden fair.     I held her hand that I might trace     Her fortune in its palm;     A bolder moonbeam than the rest     Crept up and kissed her arm,     And, kissing once, was loth to leave,     So hid himself within the sleeve     That clasped the lithe arm, white and bare,     All in that garden fair.     I traced her fortune: love and wealth,     Tho life, alas! was short,     But will that wealth be bought with love?     Or love with wealth be bought?     I know not, knowing only this     Her hand seemed waiting for a kiss,     I longed to, but I did not dare     All in that garden fair.     But she, alas! is not for me,     And I am not for her;     Yet ever deep within my thoughts     A faint regret must stir     A thrill of longing that among     Those moonlit paths with lovers tongue     I might return, and woo her there     All in that garden fair.