Spirits of old, who made for me a bed
Of the fourth month’s grass in the lilac’s shade,
Where poplars, proud as kings, across a glade
Of care-free light their gentle shadows spread,
You let me slumber with the deathless dead,
In my tent of leaves, before the world forbade
The dove’s return, and drifting time betrayed
The farewell phantoms of my thought-crowned head.
And yet, O spirits, mine is not to feign
Sad moaning of your adieux. Let us part,
And leave to kind oblivion its take
Of what was meant to fade, that we remain,
Beyond lost reveries of lyric art,
My love and I, to live life’s dream awake.