To Rosamund

AND it is fair and very fair This maze of blossom and sweet air, This drift of orchard snows, This royal promise of the rose Wherein your young eyes see Such buds of scented joys to be. A gay green garden, softly fanned By the blythe breeze that blows To speed your ship of dreams to the enchanted land. But I--beyond the budding screen Of green and red and white and green, Behind the radiant show Of things that cling and grow and glow I see the plains where lie The hopes of days gone by: Gray breadths of melancholy, crossed By winds that coldly blow From that cold sea wherein my argosy is lost.