LOVE'S LANDMARKS

The woods we used to walk, my love,

Are woods no more,

But’ villas’ now with sounding names —

All name and door.

The pond, where, early on in March,

The yellow cup

Of water-lilies made us glad,

Is now filled up.

But ah! what if they fill or fell

Each pond, each tree,

What matters it to-day, my love,

To me — to thee?

The jerry-builder may consume,

A greedy moth,

God's mantle of the living green,

I feel no wrath;

Eat up the beauty of the world,

And gorge his fill

On mead and winding country lane,

And grassy hill.

I only laugh, for now of these

I have no care,

Now that to me the fair is foul,

And foul as fair.