Poetry Archives

Erewhile, before the world was old,
When violets grew and celandine,
In Cupid’s train we were enrolled:
            Erewhile!
Your little hands were clasped in mine,
Your head all ruddy and sun-gold
Lay on my breast which was your shrine,
And all the tale of love was told:
Ah, God, that sweet things should decline,
And fires fade out which were not cold,
            Erewhile.