Celandine
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HINKING of her had saddened me at first,Until I saw the sun on the celandines lieRedoubled, and she stood up like a flame,A living thing, not what before I nursed,The shadow I was growing to love almost,The phantom, not the creature with bright eyeThat I had thought never to see, once lost. She found the celandines of FebruaryAlways before us all. Her nature and nameWere like those flowers, and now immediatelyFor a short swift eternity back she came,Beautiful, happy, simply as when she woreHer brightest bloom among the winter huesOf all the world; and I was happy too,Seeing the blossoms and the maiden whoHad seen them with me Februarys before,Bending to them as in and out she trodAnd laughed, with locks sweeping the mossy sod. But this was a dream: the flowers were not true,Until I stooped to pluck from the grass thereOne of five petals and I smelt the juiceWhich made me sigh, remembering she was no more,Gone like a never perfectly recalled air.
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