Where last we met was a shallowing stream,
And over it’s course leaned a wise oak tree,
And all seemed well, as though in a dream,
Yet there, again, we never would be.
Passers-by now feel a deep sombre mood,
As though a sad spectre, lonely, there stands,
Longing for her, the one he once wooed
With talk of the seas, and far travelled lands.
Some hear a whisper, as if called out to stop,
Others see phantasms floating through leaves,
From which drip tears, drop after drop,
As if Nature for Love and lovers bereaves;
Some see a shadow man rising to reach for the hand,
Of the woman who waits, as if unaware,
Haunted and haunting in a dark ghostly land,
Few stay there for long, for few wish to dare.
But I see a place, now barren, decayed,
Of a life torn apart, it now seems to me,
And though all seemed well, as once in a dream,
It is where, again, we never can be.