This is the house where, twenty years ago,
They spent a Spring and Summer. This shut gate
Would lead you to the terrace, and below
To a rose garden long since desolate.
Here they once lived. How often I have sat
Till it was dusk among the olive trees,
Waiting to hear their coming horse–hoofs grate
Upon the gravel; till the freshening breeze
Bore down a sound of voices. Even yet
A broken echo of their laughter rings
Through the deserted terraces; and see,
While I am speaking, from the parapet
There is a hand put forth, and some one flings
Her very window open overhead.
–How sweet it is, this scent of rosemary!
–These are the last tears I shall ever shed.