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Poem by Ernest Christopher Dowson
Through the green boughs I hardly saw thy face, They twined so close: the sun was in mine eyes; And now the sullen trees in sombre lace Stand bare beneath the sinister, sad skies. O sun and summer! Say in what far night, The gold and green, the glory of thine head, Of bough and branch have fallen? Oh, the white Gaunt ghosts that flutter where thy feet have sped, Across the terrace that is desolate, And rang then with thy laughter, ghost of thee, That holds its shroud up with most delicate, Dead fingers, and behind the ghost of me, Tripping fantastic with a mouth that jeers At roseal flowers of youth the turbid streams Toss in derision down the barren years To death the host of all our golden dreams.
Ernest Christopher Dowson
Ernest Christopher Dowson's other poems:
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