A MEMORY OF YOUTH
 
 THE moments passed as at a play;
 I had the wisdom love brings forth;
 I had my share of mother-wit,
 And yet for all that I could say,
 And though I had her praise for it,
 A cloud blown from the cut-throat North
 Suddenly hid Love's moon away.
 Believing every word I said,
 I praised her body and her mind
 Till pride had made her eyes grow bright,
 And pleasure made her cheeks grow red,
 And vanity her footfall light,
 Yet we, for all that praise, could find
 Nothing but darkness overhead.
 We sat as silent as a stone,
 We knew, though she'd not said a word,
 That even the best of love must die,
 And had been savagely undone
 Were it not that Love upon the cry
 Of a most ridiculous little bird
 Tore from the clouds his marvellous moon.
 ALTHOUGH crowds gathered once if she but showed her face,
 And even old men's eyes grew dim, this hand alone,
 Like some last courtier at a gypsy camping-place
 Babbling of fallen majesty, records what's gone.
 These lineaments, a heart that laughter has made sweet,
 These, these remain, but I record what-s gone.  A crowd
 Will gather, and not know it walks the very street
 Whereon a thing once walked that seemed a burning cloud