I made a slow lament for you, lost magic
Of schoolboy love and dreams in shadowed places,
Where passed in visible parade, the tragic
Desires of vanished gods and women’s faces.

On violins beneath long undisputed
New England orchards sombred by the spirit
Of endless autumn, I awoke the muted
Strings of your lament, but none could hear it.

Except, perhaps, one passerby, who skirted
The upland fields in that avoided spot;
And, marvelling at the music in deserted
Orchards, hurried on, and soon forgot.