Strange that on warp and woof of dreams

Fancy should weave the web of truth,

And yet this fairy figment seems

Part of a half-forgotten youth

Stolen from days I thought were sped

Out of the world beyond the dead.

Smiled she not when at the edge

Of evening we walked alone

Plucking spring's blossoms from the hedge

That she might wear them as her own,

Or do I hold a hopeless tryst

Here with a shadow, made of mist?

Now as will crumpled rose leaves, pent

By fingers we can never know,

Rouse with the richness of their scent,

Thoughts of a summer long ago,

All the expanse of land and sea

Speaks with a thousand tongues to me.

'Twas from coast we watched slow form,

Out of the frosty ocean's breath,

The blue-gray ramparts of the storm

Flashing with signal fires of death,

Whilst with a murmur, far and wide,

Swept in the low wind with the tide.

Then, at last, when lips were dumb

With fear of parting, did we wend

Along the meadow lanes that come

From nowhere, and in nothing end,

And, smiling, kiss, though ill at ease,

Under the rustling orchard trees.

But will the promise given keep?

Can the heart love still when 'tis dead?

What if the spirit, waked from sleep,

Never recall the words it said?

Dwell in a dreamland, or else be

Lost in life's eternity?