A Memory.

Sometimes in halls of beauty and of love,1
Where many fair and many proud ones be,2
And where the reckless and the thoughtless move,3
I picture thee.4
Thy memory comes to my lone heart enfolden5
In strains of sweetest music ; murmuring low,6
Strange tales of dames and knights in pageants
And courtly show.8
The lonely wind that sighs in murmurs deep9
Round some old ruin dear to love and fame,10
Luring the passer-by to pause and weep,11
Might breathe thy name !12
I picture thee the spirit of some spot13
Beautifully haunted by an olden spell ;14
Some waving wood, or silver-streaming grot,15
Or perfumed dell.16
Ever retiring in thy simple grace,17
A gentler, dearer presence, never shone18
From mortal figure or from lady’s face,19
Than thy dear one.20
A very rose-bud to the gazer’s eye,21
Yet to the sense thou art a blooming flow’r,22
Pouring thy fragrance on the summer sky23
At evening hour.24
Ever in dreams thou com’st. I may not trace25
In waking hours the presence of that spell26
Which holds me bound with such a winning grace.27
—Farewell !28