An Eve Of Yore

I remember, sae surely, sae surely,
A certain eve in the greying season,
When the hawthorns stood bare, their branches
Shaking in their agony of barrenness.
I remember that the little path which wound
About the neck of the hill had gone ashen,
And the dust of the primroses was black,
And the leaves bled one upon the other-
Scarlet in the grey.
Ah, I remember this certain eve,
And the paleness of the evening star
Against the silvering sky, and the glow
Of the lips of the West, and the shadows
That clung at the East. I remember all of this.
It seems that I cannot remember the sun.
Strange! I know I have seen it.
Within me, shut away in a midnight,
There is a sun, a great, golden glory
Which warms my soul.
Yet strange, strange, how strange! Even when
I walk amid the turmoil of the day,
And know the brightness about me,
Still I recall a certain grey eve,
And the dust of the dead primroses,
And the lips of the West glowing,
And the shadows in the East.