Roses And Rue

(To L. L.)     Could we dig up this long-buried treasure,     Were it worth the pleasure,     We never could learn love's song,     We are parted too long.     Could the passionate past that is fled     Call back its dead,     Could we live it all over again,     Were it worth the pain!     I remember we used to meet     By an ivied seat,     And you warbled each pretty word     With the air of a bird;     And your voice had a quaver in it,     Just like a linnet,     And shook, as the blackbird's throat     With its last big note;     And your eyes, they were green and grey     Like an April day,     But lit into amethyst     When I stooped and kissed;     And your mouth, it would never smile     For a long, long while,     Then it rippled all over with laughter     Five minutes after.     You were always afraid of a shower,     Just like a flower:     I remember you started and ran     When the rain began.     I remember I never could catch you,     For no one could match you,     You had wonderful, luminous, fleet,     Little wings to your feet.     I remember your hair did I tie it?     For it always ran riot     Like a tangled sunbeam of gold:     These things are old.     I remember so well the room,     And the lilac bloom     That beat at the dripping pane     In the warm June rain;     And the colour of your gown,     It was amber-brown,     And two yellow satin bows     From your shoulders rose.     And the handkerchief of French lace     Which you held to your face     Had a small tear left a stain?     Or was it the rain?     On your hand as it waved adieu     There were veins of blue;     In your voice as it said good-bye     Was a petulant cry,     'You have only wasted your life.'     (Ah, that was the knife!)     When I rushed through the garden gate     It was all too late.     Could we live it over again,     Were it worth the pain,     Could the passionate past that is fled     Call back its dead!     Well, if my heart must break,     Dear love, for your sake,     It will break in music, I know,     Poets' hearts break so.     But strange that I was not told     That the brain can hold     In a tiny ivory cell     God's heaven and hell.