You know deep in your heart, it could not last--
And, when a wind, newborn on some hillside--
(Some fair tall hill the other side of Crete)
Came laden with the dear and odorous past--
(Laden with scents of gardens that have died,
Buried in dust, not any longer sweet.)
Then, realized, all the unlovely years
Lay on your heart, like those old gardens’ dust;
You had forgotten how your life was fair,
For all the memories were dulled with tears
Since shed, and unsuspected moth and rust
Ate deep, and naught remembered was but care.
So is your treasure lost, vanished away--
Nothing but wind and half-shut eyes and grass--
Nothing of now but strivings after then.
And naught heard in the clear air of to-day
But dusty wings that crumble as they pass--
You have not strength to make them live again.
_The Masses_ _Lydia Gibson_