  Alone upon the little path that led Along the mountain-side towards the sun I pondered o'er those passions that are dead, I counted all your kisses one by one; I spoke aloud the memory of each word My heart had heard. The scent of pines was heavy in the noon, The air most happy with the song of streams, Above the forest hung an early moon, But I was gazing at my perished dreams, And in that moment, while my soul was brave, I dug their grave. I folded each within a golden shroud, Torn from the shining garments of my youth, I did not weep, but very gently bowed My aching spirit to the yoke of truth, Then in the stillness of the fading day I knelt to pray. |
|
