IV
Long ago we walked together in a garden;
It was evening and the leaves fell down;
Silently we passed over the dead, the fallen,
Over flowers and branches that were withered there—
And the air was weary with the scent of other days,
A fragrance faint and pensive.
The sighing of the leaves beneath our feet
Were as old dreams retold,
Stirred from the golden quilt of memory,