SWEET water-moons,blown into lights Of flying gold on pool and creek,And many sounds and many sights,Of younger days are back this week.
I cannot say I sought to face,Or greatly cared to cross again,The subtle spirit of the place Whose life is mixed with Rose Lorraine.
What though her voice rings clearly through A nightly dream I gladly keep,No wish have I to start anew Heart-fountains that have ceased to leap.
Here,face to face with different days,And later things that plead for love,It would be worse than wrong to raise A phantom far too fain to move.
But,Rose Lorraine -ah,Rose Lorraine,I'll whisper now where no one hears.
If you should chance to meet again The man you kissed in soft dead years,Just say for once "he suffered much,''
And add to this "his fate was worst Because of me,my voice,my touch,''-There is no passion like the first!
If I that breathe your slow sweet name As one breathes low notes on a flute,Have vext your peace with word of blame,The phrase is dead -the lips are mute.