 | The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown |  |
II
[At Malmsmead, by the river side]
At Malmsmead, by the river sideI met a little lady,
And, as she passed, she sang a song
That was not Tate or Brady,
Or any song by art contrived
Of minstrel or of poet,
For baron's hall, or chanter's desk;
And yet I seemed to know it.
Good sooth! I think the song was mine—
The all unthinking sadness—
She read it from my longing eyes,
And gave it back in gladness.
665
As plain as she could make it,
So petulant, so innocent,
And yet I could not take it.
A breath, a gleam, and she is gone—
Just half a minute only—
So die the breaths, so fade the gleams,
And we are left so lonely.
| The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown | |