Indian Spring

As the long night comes on
The final twilight thickens in old eyes,
And though the spring came earlier this year,
Winter seemed longer and the days more drear.

But in the fern-light greenery of the heart
There lives a springtime that no frost can kill;
The lilacs bloom along old ways,
And the discreet music of subdued old Pan
Is heard there still.
For he has piped there now these seventy years —
Piped even when the fountains ran with tears.

" Styles change, " the old lips say.
" Styles even change in roses — in my day
It was Old Cottage Rose or else Rêve d'or .
Now Maiden Blushes have gone out,
Who plants Old Gold of Ophir any more? "
No one, perhaps, but memory, yet until
The Gardener with his shears prunes out the heart,
The old-fashioned roses bloom there still,
Nor roots, nor thorns, nor fragrance can depart.

Love hears the whirr of wings about the eaves
Of his deserted dovecotes, through the leaves
Of vanished seasons, as the light grows thin,
Lost voices speak there in that garden that receives
Bright spirits, where the world has never been.

So the long night comes on —
And final twilight gathers in old eyes,
While one dim boat waits on the low lagoon.
Styles change for souls like roses, but, my dear,
We know before you go —
Yours will remain with us like Constant June .