  FROM out the past she comes to me, My Lady whom I loved long syne: Her face is very fair to see, Her gray eyes still with love-light shine, I needs must think she still is mine. Once—in those old years long ago— I waited at the hour of dawn. And, with the first faint Eastern glow— Before the sun his sword had drawn And flushed its light the world upon, My Lady’s true love did I know! But now at eve she comes—I stand Alone. Among the autumn trees Her white robe glimmers, and the breeze Wafts me a ghostly fragrance rare. Ah me! No rose doth she now bear— But crimson poppies in her hand. |
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