When apple buds began to swell,
And Procne called for Philomel,
Down there, where Seine caresseth sea
Two lassies deigned, or chanced, to be
Playmates or votaries for me,
Miss Euphrasie, Miss Eulalie.
Then dates of birth dropt out of mind,
For one was brave as two were kind;
In cheerful vigil one designed
A maze of wit for two to wind;
And that grey Muse who served the three
Broke daylight into reverie.
Peace lit upon a fluttering vein,
And, self forgetting, on the brain,
On rifts, by passion wrought, again
Splashed from the sky of childhood rain;
And rid of afterthought were we,
And from foreboding sweetly free.
Now falls the apple, bleeds the vine,
And moved by some autumnal sign,
I, who in spring was glad, repine,
And ache without my anodyne.
Oh things that were, oh things that are,
Oh setting of my double star!
This day this way an Iris came,
And brought a scroll, and showed a name.
Now surely they who thus reclaim
Acquaintance should relight a flame.
So speed, gay steed, that I may see
Dear Euphrasie, dear Eulalie.
Behind this ivy screen are they
Whose girlhood flowered on me last May.
The world is lord of all; I pray
They be not courtly—who can say?
Well, well, remembrance held in fee
Is good, nay, best. I turn and flee.