Poetry Archives

I walked with Maisie long years back
   The streets of Camden Town,
I splendid in my suit of black,
   And she divine in brown.

Hers was a proud and noble face,
   A secret heart, and eyes
Like water in a lonely place
   Beneath unclouded skies.

A bed, a chest, a faded mat,
   And broken chairs a few,
Were all we had to grace our flat
   In Hazel Avenue.

But I could walk to Hampstead Heath,
   And crown her head with daisies,
And watch the streaming world beneath,
   And men with other Maisies.

When I was ill and she was pale
   And empty stood our store,
She left the latchkey on its nail,
   And saw me nevermore.

Perhaps she cast herself away
   Lest both of us should drown:
Perhaps she feared to die, as they
   Who die in Camden Town.

What came of her?  The bitter nights
   Destroy the rose and lily,
And souls are lost among the lights
   Of painted Piccadilly.

What came of her?  The river flows
   So deep and wide and stilly,
And waits to catch the fallen rose
   And clasp the broken lily.

I dream she dwells in London still
   And breathes the evening air,
And often walk to Primrose Hill,
   And hope to meet her there.

Once more together we will live,
   For I will find her yet:
I have so little to forgive;
   So much, I can’t forget.