VI

For the song is lost that shook the dew

Where the wild musk-roses glisten,

When the sunset dreamed that a dream was true

And the birds were hushed to listen.

The song is lost that shook the night

With wings of richer fire,

Where the years had touched their eyes with light

And their souls with a new desire;

And the new delight of the strange old story

Burned in the flower-soft skies,

And nine more years with a darker glory

Had deepened the light of her eyes;

But lost, oh more than lost the song

That shook the rose to tears,

As hand in hand they danced along

Through childhood's everlasting years.

“Oh, Love has wings,” the linnet sings;

But the dead return no more, no more;

And the sea is breaking its old grey heart

Against the golden shore.

She was eight years old that day,

Two young lovers were they.

If every song as they danced along

Paused on the springing spray;

Is there never a bird in the wide greenwood

Will hush its heart to-day?

There's never a leaf with dew impearled

To make their pathway sweet,

And never a blossom in all the world

That knows the kiss of their feet.

No light to-night declares the word

That thrilled the blossomed bough,

And stilled the happy singing bird

That none can silence now.

The weary nightingale may sob

With her bleeding breast against a thorn,

And the wild white rose with every throb

Grow red as the laugh of morn;

With wings outspread she sinks her head

But Love returns no more, no more;

And the sea is breaking its old grey heart

Against the golden shore.

Born in the City of Pain;

Ah, who knows, who knows

When Death shall turn to delight again

Or a wound to a red, red rose?

Eight years old that day,

Full of laughter and play;

Eight years old and Anwyl nine,—

Two young lovers were they.