Lydia is gone this many a year, <br />Yet when the lilacs stir, <br />In the old gardens far or near, <br />The house is full of her. <br /> <br />They climb the twisted chamber stair; <br />Her picture haunts the room; <br />On the carved shelf beneath it there, <br />They heap the purple bloom. <br /> <br />A ghost so long has Lydia been, <br />Her cloak upon the wall, <br />Broidered, and gilt, and faded green, <br />Seems not her cloak at all. <br /> <br />The book, the box on mantel laid, <br />The shells in a pale row, <br />Are those of some dim little maid, <br />A thousand years ago. <br /> <br />And yet the house is full of her; <br />She goes and comes again; <br />And longings thrill, and memories stir, <br />Like lilacs in the rain. <br /> <br />Out in their yards the neighbors walk, <br />Among the blossoms tall; <br />Of Anne, of Phyllis, do they talk, <br />Of Lydia not at all.<br /><br />Lizette Woodworth Reese<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/lydia-is-gone-this-many-a-year/
