Poems, now first collected/To L. H. S.

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New York: Houghton, Mifflin and Company, pages 159–161

TO L. H. S.

Love, these vagrant songs may woo you
Once again from winter's ruth,—
Once more quicken memories failing
Of those days when we went sailing,
Eager as when first I knew you,
Sailing after my lost youth.

My lost youth, for in my sight you
Had yourself forborne to change
Since that age when we, together,
Made such mock of wind and weather,
Sought alone what might delight you,—
Ah, how sweet, how far, how strange!

Yet, though scarcely else anear you
Than Tithonus to Aurore,
I am still by Time requited,
Still can vaunt, as when we plighted,
Sight to see you, ear to hear you,
Voice to sing you, if no more.

And in thought I yet behold you
Nearing the enchanted zone,—
(With delight of life the stronger
As we sailed, each blue league longer,
Toward the shore of which I told you,
And the stars myself had known),—

Wondering at the hue beneath you
Of the restless shining waves,
Asking of the palm and coral,—
Of the white cascades—the floral
Ridges waiting long to wreathe you
With the blooms our Norseland craves.

Winds enow since then have kissed you,
On their way to bless or blight;
Little may these songs recover
Of that dream-life swiftly over,—
Nay, but Love, a moment list you,
Since none else can set them right.

More and ever more, the while you
Sailed where every distance gleams,
Passed all sorrow, died all anger,
In the clime of love and languor,
Till we reached the mist-hung isle you
Called the haunted Isle of Dreams.