Dream after dream, they come and go,
1
Smiting a fleeting music from the heart,
Aflame for a brief space—
Breathing a little fugitive "alas!"
But only one still keeps its ancient place,
And bloom still on its face.
Yet still one face for me,
Year after year, spring after spring,
With magic freshness and persistency,
15
For, being gone so many an aching year,
In vain it makes pretence of vanishing
Still strangely it is here,
When I behold the dreams that still go on,
22
Still to be touched and to be gazed on still,
And see Time's writing on their weathered brows,
And mark the long endurance of old vows,
I am most glad that face of mine is gone,
Abates—yea! almost happy I grow,
29
Because that lovely mortal shape of her
Beyond the limits of my famished eyes,
32
And with stern Death I make my quarrel up—
35
For all that bitter and heart-broken cup
He to my lips one April morning set:
It was his wizard touch upon her brow
That saves her still for me,
She never fade, nor ever I forget.