Except for wind that stirs Lombardy leaves
To watered silk first dark then silver-shot,
And mingling with their rustle interweaves
Its late lament with mine for what is not,
This April afternoon is counterpart
Of such a day of silver sun and thunder
As when we walked like children light of heart
Together lost in labyrinths of wonder.
Returning is a journey only dared
When all evasive efforts to forget
Have failed to quite annul the love we shared-
How long I feared to come this way and yet,
Now that I stand alone where then we stood
The wind absolves for me the empty wood.
Dorothy R. Howard
3 hours ago