(1887-1895) <br /> <br />Through the green boughs I hardly saw thy face, <br />They twined so close: the sun was in mine eyes; <br />And now the sullen trees in sombre lace <br />Stand bare beneath the sinister, sad skies. <br /> <br />O sun and summer! Say in what far night, <br />The gold and green, the glory of thine head, <br />Of bough and branch have fallen? Oh, the white <br />Gaunt ghosts that flutter where thy feet have sped, <br /> <br />Across the terrace that is desolate, <br />And rang then with thy laughter, ghost of thee, <br />That holds its shroud up with most delicate, <br />Dead fingers, and behind the ghost of me, <br /> <br />Tripping fantastic with a mouth that jeers <br />At roseal flowers of youth the turbid streams <br />Toss in derision down the barren years <br />To death the host of all our golden dreams.<br /><br />Ernest Christopher Dowson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/saint-germain-en-laye/
