THE SENTIMENTALIST

There lies a photograph of you

Deep in a box of broken things.

This was the face I loved and knew

Five years ago, when life had wings;

Five years ago, when through a town

Of bright and soft and shadowy bowers

We walked and talked and trailed our gown

Regardless of the cinctured hours.

The precepts that we held I kept;

Proudly my ways with you I went:

We lived our dreams while others slept,

And did not shrink from sentiment.

Now I go East and you stay West

And when between us Europe lies

I shall forget what I loved best

Away from lips and hands and eyes.

But we were Gods then: we were they

Who laughed at fools, believed in friends,

And drank to all that golden day

Before us, which this poem ends.