I, to whom the memory of a scene—
This lane, tree-shadowed, with the summer’s light
Falling in golden showers, the boughs between,
Upon your upturned face—shines out as clear,
Against the background dark of many a year,
As yonder solitary starlet bright
Gleams on the storm-clad bosom of the night.
If this were so—if you should come to me
With your calm, angel face, framed in with gold,
And lay your hand in mine as long ago