I cannot tell what change hath come to you
To vex your splendid hair. I only know
One Grief: the Passion left betwixt us two,
Like some forsaken watchfire, burneth low.
’Tis sad to turn and find it dying so
Without a hope of resurrection! Yet,
O radiant face that found me tired and lone,
I shall not for the dear dead Past forget
The sweetest looks of all the Summers gone.
Ah! Time hath made familiar wild Regret;
For now the leaves are white in last year’s bowers;
And now doth sob along the ruined leas
The homeless storm from saddened southern seas,
While March sits weeping over withered flowers.
Henry Kendall, Leaves from Australian Forests, Melbourne: George Robertson, 1869, page 113