How was this I did not see

Such a look as here was shown

Ere its womanhood had blown

Past its first felicity?—

That I did not know you young,

   Faded Face,

      Know you young!

Why did Time so ill bestead

That I heard no voice of yours

Hail from out the curved contours

Of those lips when rosy red;

Weeted not the songs they sung,

   Faded Face,

      Songs they sung!

By these blanchings, blooms of old,

And the relics of your voice—

Leavings rare of rich and choice

From your early tone and mould—

Let me mourn,—aye, sorrow-wrung,

   Faded Face,

      Sorrow-wrung!