Last night some yellow letters fell <br />From out a scrip I found by chance; <br />Among them was the silent ghost, <br />The spirit of my first romance: <br />And in a faint blue envelope <br />A withered rose long lost to dew <br />Bore witness to the dashing days <br />When love was large and wits were few. <br /> <br />Yet standing there all worn and grey <br />The teardrops quivered in my eyes <br />To think of Youth's unshaken front, <br />The forehead lifted to the skies; <br />How rough a hill my eager feet <br />Flung backward when upon its crest <br />I saw the flutter of the lace <br />The wind awoke on Helen's breast! <br /> <br />How thornless were the roses then <br />When fresh young eyes and lips were kind <br />When Cupid in our porches proved <br />How true the tale that Love is blind! <br />But Red-and-White and Poverty <br />Would only mate while shone the May; <br />Then came a Bag of Golden Crowns <br />And jingled Red-and-White away. <br /> <br />Grown old and niggard of romance <br />I wince not much at aught askew, <br />And often ask my favourite cat <br />What else had Red-and-White to do? <br />And here's the bud that rose and sank, <br />A crimson island on her breast-- <br />Why should I burn it? Once again <br />Hide, rose, and dream. God send me rest.<br /><br />Norman Rowland Gale<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/old-letters/
