Beside me, nought but this;—and passed;
I passed; and know not to this day
If gold or jet her girlish hair,
If black, or brown, or lucid-grey
Her eye’s young glance: the fickle chance
That joined us, yet may join again;
But I no face again could greet
As hers, whose life was in me then.
As unsuspecting mere a maid
As, fresh in maidhood’s bloomiest bloom,