Golden Cassia

O brilliant blossoms that strew my way,

You are only woodland flowers they say.

But, I sometimes think that perchance you are

Fragments of some new-fallen star;

Or golden lamps for a fairy shrine,

Or golden pitchers for fairy wine.

Perchance you are, O frail and sweet!

Bright anklet-bells from the wild spring's feet,

Or the gleaming tears that some fair bride shed

Remembering her lost maidenhead.

But now, in the memoried dusk you seem

The glimmering ghosts of a bygone dream.