by Susan Coolidge
This is the street and the dwelling,
Let me count the houses o'er;
Yes, -- one, two, three from the corner,
And the house that I love makes four.
That is the very window
Where I used to see her head
Bent over book or needle,
With ivy garlanded.
And the very loop of the curtain,
And the very curve of the vine,
Were full of the grace and the meaning
Which was hers by some right divine.
I began to be glad at the corner,
And all the way to the door
My heart outran my footsteps,
And frolicked and danced before,
In haste for the words of welcome,
The voice, the repose and grace,
And the smile, like a benediction,
Of that beautiful, vanished face.
Now I pass the door, and I pause not,
And I look the other way;
But ever, a waft of fragrance,
Too subtle to name or stay,
Comes the thought of the gracious presence
Which made that past time sweet,
And still to those who remember,
Embalms the house and the street,
Like the breath from some vase, now empty
Of a flowery shape unseen,
Which follows the path of its lover,
To tell where a rose has been.
Roberts Brothers, Boston