by Roland Leighton
The sunshine on the long white road
that ribboned down the hill,
the velvet clematis that clung,
around your window-sill,
are waiting for you still.
Again the shadowed pool shall break
in dimples round your feet,
and when the thrush sings in your wood,
unknowing you may meet,
another stranger, sweet.
And if he is not quite as old
as the boy you used to know,
and less proud too, and worthier,
you may not let him go –
(and daisies are truer that passion flowers)
It will be better so.