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Thinking of
her had saddened me at first,
Until I saw the sun on
the celandines lie
Redoubled, and she stood up like a
flame,
A living thing, not what before I nursed,
The shadow I was growing to love almost,
The phantom,
not the creature with bright eye
That I had thought
never to see, once lost.
She found the celandines
of February
Always before us all. Her nature and name
Were like those flowers, and now immediately
For a
short swift eternity back she came,
Beautiful, happy,
simply as when she wore
Her brightest bloom among the
winter hues
Of all the world; and I was happy too,
Seeing the blossoms and the maiden who
Had seen them
with me Februarys before,
Bending to them as in and
out she trod
And laughed, with locks sweeping the
mossy sod.
But this was a dream; the flowers were
not true,
Until I stooped to pluck from the grass
there
One of five petals and I smelt the juice
Which made me sigh, remembering she was no more,
Gone
like a never perfectly recalled air.
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