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LAST YEAR.
149
II.
H, Love, you must remember, though, to-day,There is no spell to charm you in the past,—
So dear the dream was that it could not last:
Full soon our pleasant skies were changed to grey,
The sun turned from our barren land away,
And all the leaves swept by us on the blast,
And all our hopes to that wild wind were cast,—
For dead Love's soul there is no place to pray.
But still the old time lives in each our thought,—
In our regretful dreams the old suns rise,
And, from their shining, memory hath caught
Some lingering glory of the glad surprise
When Love rose on us, like the sun, and brought
Our hearts their morning under last year's skies.
