SAINT-GERMAIN-EN-LAYE

The Database of Ornament
                                           1887-1895

            THROUGH the green boughs, I hardly saw thy face
            They twined so close ; the sun was in mine eyes ;
            And now the sullen trees in sombre lace,
            Stand bare beneath the sinister, sad skies.

            O sun and summer ! Say, in what far night,
            The gold and green, the glory of thine head,
            Of bough and branch have fallen ? O, the white,
            Gaunt ghosts that flutter where thy feet have sped,

            Across the terrace, that is desolate,
            But rang then with thy laughter : ghost of thee,
            That holds its shroud up with most delicate
            Dead fingers ; and, behind, the ghost of me,

            Tripping fantastic with a mouth that jeers
            At roseal flowers of youth, the turbid streams
            Toss in derision down the barren years
            To Death, the Host of all our golden dreams.

                                                                            ERNEST DOWSON.