THERE is a picture in my brain
That only fades to come again :
The sunlight, through a veil of rain
To leeward, gilding
A narrow stretch of brown sea-sand;
A light-house half a league from land ;
And two young lovers hand in hand
Upon the budded apple-trees
The robins sing by twos and threes,
And even at the faintest breeze
Down drops a blossom ;
And ever would that lover be
The wind that robs the bourgeoned tree,
And lifts the soft tress daintily
On Beauty’s bosom.
Ah, graybeard, what a happy thing
It was, when life was in its spring,
To peep through Love’s betrothal ring
At Fields Elysian,
To move and breathe in magic air,
To think that all that seems is fair! —
Ah, ripe young mouth and golden hair,
Thou pretty vision !
Well, well, — I think not on these two,
But the old wound breaks out anew,
And the old dream, as if ’t were true,
In my heart nestles ;
Then tears come welling to my eyes,
For yonder, all in saintly guise,
As ’t were, a sweet dead woman lies
Upon the trestles!