Lynton Verses

At Malmsmead, by the river side
I met a little lady,
And, as she passed, she sang a song
That was not Tate or Brady,
Or any song by art contrived
Of minstrel or of poet,
For baron's hall, or chanter's desk ;
And yet I seemed to know it.
Good sooth ! I think the song was mine —
The all unthinking sadness—
She read it from my longing eyes,
And gave it back in gladness
And yet it was a challenge too,
As plain as she could make it,
So petulant, so innocent,
And yet I could not take it.
A breath, a gleam, and she is gone —
Just half a minute only—
So die the breaths, so fade the gleams,
And we are left so lonely.