A Memory Of Youth
THE
moments
passed
as
at
a
play;
I
had
the
wisdom
love
brings
forth;
I
had
my
share
of
mother-wit,
And
yet
for
all
that
I
could
say,
And
though
I
had
her
praise
for
it,
A
cloud
blown
from
the
cut-throat
North
Suddenly
hid
Love's
moon
away.
Believing
every
word
I
said,
I
praised
her
body
and
her
mind
Till
pride
had
made
her
eyes
grow
bright,
And
pleasure
made
her
cheeks
grow
red,
And
vanity
her
footfall
light,
Yet
we,
for
all
that
praise,
could
find
Nothing
but
darkness
overhead.
We
sat
as
silent
as
a
stone,
We
knew,
though
she'd
not
said
a
word,
That
even
the
best
of
love
must
die,
And
had
been
savagely
undone
Were
it
not
that
Love
upon
the
cry
Of
a
most
ridiculous
little
bird
Tore
from
the
clouds
his
marvellous
moon.
ALTHOUGH
crowds
gathered
once
if
she
but
showed
her
face,
And
even
old
men's
eyes
grew
dim,
this
hand
alone,
Like
some
last
courtier
at
a
gypsy
camping-place
Babbling
of
fallen
majesty,
records
what's
gone.
These
lineaments,
a
heart
that
laughter
has
made
sweet,
These,
these
remain,
but
I
record
what-s
gone.
A
crowd
Will
gather,
and
not
know
it
walks
the
very
street
Whereon
a
thing
once
walked
that
seemed
a
burning
cloud
