Classic Poem

My friend, he spoke of a woman's face:
It puzzled me, and I paused to think.
He told of her eyes and mouth, the trace
Of prayer on her brow, and quick as wink
I said: " Oh yes, but you wrong her years.
She's only a child, with faith and fears
That childhood fit. I tell thee nay;
She was a girl just yesterday. "

" The years are swift and sure, I trow, "
(Quoth he). " You speak of the long ago. "

Once I strolled in a garden spot,
And every flower upraised a head
(So it seemed), for they, I wot,
Were mates of mine; each bloom and bed,
Their hours for sleep, their merry mood,
The lives and deaths of the whole sweet brood,
Were known to me; it was my way
To visit them but yesterday.

Spake one red rose, in a language low:
" We saw you last in the long ago. "

Entering under the lintel wide,
I saw the room; it was all the same:
The oaken press and the shelves aside,
The window small for the sunset flame,
The book I loved on the table large;
I opened: lo! in the yellow marge
The leaf I placed was shrunk and gray.
I swear it was green but yesterday.

Then a voice stole out of the sunset glow:
" You lived here, man, in the long ago. "

'Tis the same old tale, though it comes to me
By a hundred paths of pain and glee,
Till I guess the truth at last, and know
That Yesterday is the Long Ago.