I.

The years we spent together — what are they
But blown dust on the wastes of yesterday?
Yet should I find my joy I must go back,
Seeking its fragments where the gray years stay.
Who knows what ghost may come the selfsame track,
Wistful, for that his live hand cast away?

II

The dream we dreamed together — it is gone
Like some frail rose a great wind falls upon,
Destroying utterly. Yet I, in truth,
Would give all golden gardens 'neath the sun
For one torn petal from that rose of youth,
And nowhere may I find one — nay, not one.

III

Perchance that happiness we have not known
Love now bestows on other lovers, grown
More worthy of a gift left unpossessed.
Those vagabonds met there beneath the blown
May Moon to-night, may wear within each breast
The joy divine that might have been our own.