Love came to me once more,
His wings all drenched with rain;
Silent his singing lips,
His eyes were dark with pain.
Dead roses in his hands—
Gone were the flowers of yore;
Only a poor, grey ghost,
Love lingered at my door.
Wasted his rounded limbs
And grey his golden hair—
Poor, shadowy, silent God,
Who once had been so fair.
"O Love, great Love," I cried,
"Why come you thus to me?"
"I am Love's ghost," he said;
"Men name me Memory."