The Sentimentalist

There lies a photograph of you Deep in a box of broken things. This was the face I loved and knew Five years ago, when life had wings; Five years ago, when through a town Of bright and soft and shadowy bowers We walked and talked and trailed our gown Regardless of the cinctured hours. The precepts that we held I kept; Proudly my ways with you I went: We lived our dreams while others slept, And did not shrink from sentiment. Now I go East and you stay West And when between us Europe lies I shall forget what I loved best Away from lips and hands and eyes. But we were Gods then: we were they Who laughed at fools, believed in friends, And drank to all that golden day Before us, which this poem ends.