OR in caprice or through neglect Gone is the Greengage, rusty-speck'd, Gone the Red Sage that once bedecked Our garden alleys. But most I miss the Musk, of yore That scented every cottage door And pathway of the labouring poor, —But sweetliest Sally's. Hers was a life together lent With it and its belonging scent— God knows which way or why they went— But you may go where You will, and search the countryside Where wavering clouds and waters glide: It died, the year that Sally died— You'll find it nowhere. |