When Eve grew old,
How many a time she must have dreamed and dreamed
Of her lost Eden, with gardens all of gold,
And Springtide winds that whispered low, and streamed
Quietly through the dim, hushed afternoon;
And, gray and sad, wept for her vanished June,
Until some thought of her lost Paradise
Lighted her old, old eyes!

So now the Year,
Banished from her young Joy and fragrant hours,
Grown feeble with much longing, sad and sere,
Dreams once again of gardens white with flowers;
And as she turns to brood upon the past,
Weary, autumnal now, and old at last,
Upon her face there shines the golden glow
Of June, lost long ago.