FOREGONE
Recumbent on a lonely bed
this inartistic man of trade,
recalling now with grieving mind:
the crying winds which ruffled sward
still wet with tears of early dew,
the footmarks on a winding path
where mourners walked in sombre dress.
And swathed in robes of flowing silk
the lily white of covered limbs,
her sleeping body now interred,
denies a passage to a dream,
his love’s illusion now foregone.