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Edith Nesbit - Envoys
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BROWN leaves forget the green of May, 
    The earth forgets the kiss of Spring; 
And down our happy woodland way 
    Gray mists go wandering. 


You have forgotten too, they say; 
    Yet, does no stealthy memory creep 
Among the mist wreaths, ghostly gray, 
    Where spell-bound violets sleep? 


Ah, send your thought sometimes to stray 
    By paths that knew our lingering feet. 
My thought walks there this many a day, 
    And they, at least, may meet.
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