1887-1895
by Ernest Dowson.
Originally published in The Savoy (Leonard Smithers) vol.1 #2 (Apr 1896).
Through the green boughs, I hardly saww thy face
They twined so close; the sun was in mine eyes;
And now the sullen trees in sombre lace,
Stand bare beneath the sinister, sad skies.
O sun and summer! Say, in what far night,
The gold and green, the glory of thine head,
Of bough and branch have fallen? O, the white,
Gaunt ghosts that flutter where thy feet have sped.
Across the terrace, that is desolate,
But rang then with thy laughter: ghost of thee,
That holds its shroud up with most delicate
Dead fingers; and, behind, the ghost of me,
Tripping fantastic with a mouth that jeers
At roseal flowers of youth, the turbid streams
Toss in derision down the barren years
To Death, the Host of all our golden dreams.