AS dumbly as the sunset overhead

Swoons from its life of amethyst and gold

Into dark death, thou brokest from our hold

And died without a mourner by thy bed.

Not till we felt that something fair had fled,

Not till we turned to kiss thee as of old,

Not till our lips in kissing knew thee cold,

Ah, not till then. Love, knew we thou wert dead.

When didst thou die? We do not know the hour !

We had forgotten thee in work and play,

And like some delicate and fragile flower

Didst gradually wither day by day,

Tho' needing only sunshine, and a shower

Of April tears to save thee from decay.