WHEN, on an empty night in later years 
Thou ponderest over sorrowful sweet things, 
While troubling with cold hands the muted strings 
Of Memory's lute now silent in thine ears, 
These words shall sweep with soft descent of tears-- 
Shall wound the air with sudden thrust of wings 
Bringing the Past to thee as Winter brings 
To naked boughs the colour April wears. 
Thou shalt read over, in less fortunate days, 
Forgotten pages till thy heart be moved 
To sudden pity and to passionate praise 
Of what thou didst not heed nor understand; 
Letting the book drop from thy trembling hand, 
"Once," thou shalt say and pause . . . "How I was loved!"