Her Street
Arthur Symons
1865 to 1945
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I passed your street of many memories.
A sunset, sombre pink, the flush
Of inner rose-leaves idle crush,
Died softly, as the rose that dies.
All high heaven behind the roof lay thus,
Tenderly dying, touched with pain
A little; standing there I again
The sunsets that were dear to us.
I not if ’twere bitter or more sweet
To and watch the roofs, the sky.
O bitter be there and you not nigh,
Yet this had that blessed street.
How the name thrilled me, there the wall!
There was the house, the windows
Against the rosy twilight high and bare,
The pavement-stones: I knew them all!
Days that have been, days have fallen cold!
I stood and gazed, and of you,
Until remembrance sweet and mournful drew
to eyes smiling as of old.
So, sad and glad, your memory visibly
Alive within my eyes, I turned;
And, through a window, met two eyes that burned,
Tenderly questioning, on me.