by John Banister Tabb
I knew the flowers had dreamed of you,
And hailed the morning with regret;
For all their faces with the dew
Of vanished joy were wet.
I knew the winds had passed your way,
Though not a sound the truth betrayed;
About their pinions all the day
A summer fragrance stayed.
And so, awaking or asleep,
A memory of lost delight
By day the sightless breezes keep,
And silent flowers by night.
John Lane, LondonCopeland and Day, Boston