Here is the land of memory
A placid place of gentle gusts
Where you can hear the sighing hiss
Of wind-tossed wheat fields, heady birch,
The murmur of a midnight bosk.
Here run rivers red with wine
And all the colored lights that through
A sea-shore’s stock of empty glass
Had passed or stoppered ere you strolled
The sandy margin of the tide.
Here they keep, like crescent ships,
Those glinting shards of shiny moon
That night and nothing cut or shave
From her, the moon, to lighten her
Each day, to run her course.
And here, with all forgotten things
That never leave my heart
I left your smile and laughter too
Your pretty hair, and that first hour
I knew I was in love with you.