Who dwelt here of old?
Hush! If I lift from the misty years
The veil of dead smiles and forgotten tears,
I think I can picture a little maid
Crowned with plaits of gold,
Passing alone down each green arcade
While the sundial told
In silence its hours of shine and shade.
Young she was as the peep of dawn,
And as a year-old dappled fawn
Was shy and tender and innocent.
And all her days were in waiting spent
Amongst her flowers in a day-dream she
Builded herself. So continuously
In waiting and waiting the days went by—
We know what she waited, love, you and I.
The flowers had nothing to teach to her—
In her sleep she could hear the grasses stir,
She had secrets with every rose in the place,
The lilies kept smiles for her lily-face,
She could think their thoughts and utter their speech,
Had a sister's tender look for each,
And knew why the trailing clematis
Dropped on the sundial a purple kiss—
As surely as we know why, she knew.
And so in her house of dreams she grew,
And so the star-lighted nights slipped by.
We know what she waited for—you and I—
Who dwelt here of old.
There's her tale half-told.
What more to unfold?
When he came at last did they ride away,
Or, day succeeding each happy day,
Did they stay with two heartfuls of love to brim
The garden wherein she had waited him?
Well, this I know. If they stayed or went,
After their term of life was spent
They returned to roam by her lily-pond,
On to the rosery set beyond,
Haunt her favourite paths and nooks,
Re-read the fairy-tales which her books,
The flowers, had yielded her in such store
When he was the hero of all their lore.
Hand in hand they go as of old,
He brave and bold,
She crowned with gold.
Ah, love, they are neither the first nor last!
For all of those, having loved and passed,
In spirit come back when their dust is cold,
Who dwelt here of old.