Of golden angour yearn forever toward
Some quiet gloom where plead the nightingales
Of lustral hope. I am a garden old
Where drift dead blossoms now and broken dreams
And only ghosts of old pale Sorrows walk.
Earth, April after April, beauteous is,
But from this body worn, yet once so fair,
My tired eyes gaze, as from a ruined tower
Some nesting bird looks out upon the sun.
These vagrant feet too many homes have known