AS Keats' old honeyed volume of romance I hoped to-day to drink its Latmos air, I found all pressed a white flower lying where The shepherd lad watched Pan's herd slow advance. Ah, then what tender memories did chance To bring again the day, when from your hair, This frail carnation, delicate and fair, You gave me, that I now might taste its trance. And so to-day it brings a mellow dream Of that sweet time when but to hear you speak Filled all my soul. What waves of passion seem About this flower to linger and to break, Lit by the glamour of the moon's pale beam The while my heart weeps for this dear flower's sake. |