MEMORY.
Sitting silent in the twilight, faces of my former loves
Float about my fancy softly, like a silver flight of doves.
Brighter than the stars of heaven is the shining of their eyes,
Sweeter are their angel voices than the speech of Paradise.
I am old and grey and weary, winter in my blood and brain;
But to-night these haunting phantoms conjure up my youth again.
Lovingly I name them over, all that world of gracious girls,
Almond-eyed and jasmine-bosomed, like a poet stringing pearls.
In my tranquil cypress mazes just outside the sleepy town,