Adown the grass-grown paths we strayed, <br /> The evening cowslips ope’d <br />Their yellow eyes to look at her, <br /> The love-sick lilies moped <br />With envy that she rather chose <br />To take a creamy-petalled rose <br />And lean it 'gainst her ebon hair, <br />All in that garden fair. <br /> <br />A languid breeze, with stolen scent <br /> Of box-bloom in his grasp, <br />Sighed out his longing in her ear, <br /> And with his dying gasp <br />Scattered the perfume at her feet <br />To blend with others not less sweet; <br />He loved her, but she did not care, <br />All in that garden fair. <br /> <br />The rose she honoured nodded down, <br /> His comrades burst with spite: <br />Poor fool! he knew not he was doomed <br /> To barely last the night; <br />Are hearts to her but as that flower, <br />The plaything of a careless hour, <br />To lacerate and never spare <br />All in that garden fair. <br /> <br />I held her hand that I might trace <br /> Her fortune in its palm; <br />A bolder moonbeam than the rest <br /> Crept up and kissed her arm, <br />And, kissing once, was loth to leave, <br />So hid himself within the sleeve <br />That clasped the lithe arm, white and bare, <br />All in that garden fair. <br /> <br />I traced her fortune: love and wealth,- <br /> Tho’ life, alas! was short, <br />But will that wealth be bought with love? <br /> Or love with wealth be bought? <br />I know not, knowing only this - <br />Her hand seemed waiting for a kiss, <br />I longed to, but I did not dare <br />All in that garden fair. <br /> <br />But she, alas! is not for me, <br /> And I am not for her; <br />Yet ever deep within my thoughts <br /> A faint regret must stir <br />A thrill of longing - that among <br />Those moonlit paths with lover's tongue <br />I might return, and woo her there <br />All in that garden fair.<br /><br />Barcroft Henry Thomas Boake<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-memory-5/
