Dew on her robe and on her tangled hair; <br />Twin dewdrops for her eyes; behold her pass, <br />With dainty step brushing the young, green grass, <br />The while she trills some high, fantastic air, <br />Full of all feathered sweetness: she is fair, <br />And all her flower-like beauty, as a glass, <br />Mirrors out hope and love: and still, alas! <br />Traces of tears her languid lashes wear. <br /> <br />Say, doth she weep for very wantonness? <br />Or is it that she dimly doth foresee <br />Across her youth the joys grow less and less <br />The burden of the days that are to be: <br />Autumn and withered leaves and vanity, <br />And winter bringing end in barrenness.<br /><br />Ernest Christopher Dowson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/my-lady-april/
