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But dusty cobwebs are woven now
Across that mirror, which of old
Saw fingers drawing back the gold
From an untroubled brow;
And the depths are blinded to the moon,
And their secrets forgotten, for ever untold.



VARIATIONS ON A THEME OF LAFORGUE.


Youth as it opens out discloses
The sinister metempsychosis
Of lilies dead and turned to roses
Red as an angry dawn.
But lilies, remember, are grave-side flowers,
  While slow bright rose-leaves sail
Adrift on the music of happiest hours;
  And those lilies, cold and pale,
Hide fiery roses beneath the lawn
  Of the young bride's parting veil.