In this sad place
Memory hangs on the air
Fragile as Spring snail´s tiny shell,
Coming to the sympathetic ear
Gentle as bud´s green pulsing in the sun,
Suave as sin in a black velvet glove.
The old faces gaze
Wistful as birds, among the nodding leaves;
They watch the pleasures ghosts may never share.
And through the twilight hours
Old voices call along the river-banks
And out of the high-walled garden.
Why do they sigh,
The gentle ones in the flowering musk;
And what are the words of the song
The pale stranger sings as he walks
The garden´s still, deserted paths,
Like a boy searching for his dog?
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