TO ROSAMUND.

AND it is fair and very fair

This maze of blossom and sweet air,

This drift of orchard snows,

This royal promise of the rose

Wherein your young eyes see

Such buds of scented joys to be.

A gay green garden, softly fanned

By the blythe breeze that blows

To speed your ship of dreams to the enchanted land.

But I — beyond the budding screen

Of green and red and white and green,

Behind the radiant show

Of things that cling and grow and glow

I see the plains where lie

The hopes of days gone by:

Gray breadths of melancholy, crossed

By winds that coldly blow

From that cold sea wherein my argosy is lost.