Those lips once more to my lips; those sweet eyes,
Back to where once they dreamed so near to mine.—
I know that not again on Earth shall cling
Those fair white arms, and not till all Time dies
Shall these hands in her loosened hair entwine.
There is no might can give back to the Spring
The lowliest flower dead under summer skies.
Yet thou can’st tell me wandering by what stream
And in what fields of night her white feet tread.
Have I not wandered, Love, in many a dream?