I said,—’I’m thinking of a far-off June,
When you and I, upon my birthday once,
Discoursed of life and art, with both untried.
I’m thinking, Romney, how ’twas morning then,
And now ’tis night.’
‘And now,’ he said, ‘’tis night.’
‘I’m thinking,’ I resumed, ‘’tis somewhat sad
That if I had known, that morning in the dew,
My cousin Romney would have said such words
On such a night, at close of many years,
In speaking of a future book of mine,
It would have pleased me better as a hope,
Than as an actual grace it can at all.
That’s sad, I’m thinking.’
‘Ay,’ he said, ‘’tis night.’
‘And there,’ I added lightly, ‘are the stars!
And here, we’ll talk of stars, and not of books.’
‘You have the stars,’ he murmured,—’it is well.
Be like them! shine, Aurora, on my dark,
Though high and cold and only like star,
And for this short night only,—you, who keep
The same Aurora of the bright June-day
That withered up the flowers before my face,
And turned my from the garden evermore
Because I was not worthy. Oh, deserved,
Deserved! That I, who verily had not learnt
