Classic Poem

I WALKED with Maisie long years back
— The streets of Camden Town,
I splendid in my suit of black,
— And she divine in brown.

Hers was a proud and noble face
— A secret heart, and eyes
Like water in a lonely place
— Beneath unclouded skies.

A bed, a chest, a faded mat,
— And broken chairs a few,
Were all we had to grace our flat
— In Hazel Avenue.

But I could walk to Hampstead Heath,
— And crown her head with daisies,
And watch the streaming world beneath,
— And men with other Maisies.

When I was ill and she was pale
— And empty stood our store,
She left the latchkey on its nail,
— And saw me nevermore.

Perhaps she cast herself away
— Lest both of us should drown:
Perhaps she feared to die, as they
— Who die in Camden Town.

What came of her? The bitter nights
— Destroy the rose and lily,
And souls are lost among the lights
— Of painted Piccadilly.

What came of her? The river flows
— So deep and wide and stilly,
And waits to catch the fallen rose
— And clasp the broken lily.

I dream she dwells in London still
— And breathes the evening air,
And often walk to Primrose Hill,
— And hope to meet her there.

Once more together we will live,
— For I will find her yet:
I have so little to forgive;
— So much, I can't forget.