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First published January 1, 1893
Who dreamed that beauty passes like a dream?
For these red lips, with all their mournful pride,
Mournful that no new wonder may betide,
Troy passed away in one high funeral gleam,
And Usna’s children died.
We and the labouring world are passing by:
Amid men’s souls, that waver and give place
Like the pale waters in their wintry race,
Under the passing stars, foam of the sky,
Lives on this lonely face.
I sigh that kiss you,
For I must own
That I shall miss you
When you have grown.
All the heavy days are over;
Leave the body’s coloured pride
Underneath the grass and clover.
With the feet laid side by side.
While still I may, I write for you
The love I lived, the dream I knew.
From our birthday, until we die,
Is but the winking of an eye;