Classic Poem

Only some scentless blossoms,
Once sweet and passing fair,
Only a few old letters,
Bound with a tress of hair;
Only a knot of ribbon
And a glove half torn in two,
Only a satin slipper
And a ring of turquoise blue.

Only some rusty needles,
And silken thread flung by,
Only a palette laden
With colours hard and dry;
Only a picture lying
Half finished in the shade,
Only a jewelled hand-screen,
Upon the table laid.

Only a book with pages
Turned down just here and there,
Only a “Strad” with broken strings
Upon a favourite chair;
Only a bowl of rose leaves,
In the dusk of the silent room,
Only a song once echoed
In the hush of the twilight gloom.

Only a moon-lit garden,
With rows of lily sheaves,
Only instead of footsteps
The sigh of falling leaves;
Only a window opened
To the balmy evening air,
Only a wistful yearning
For a face no longer there.