The Sin.
By Margaret Steele Anderson
That haunting air had some far strain of it,
That morning rose hath flung it back to met
The wind of spring, the ancient, awful sea.
Bid me remember it.
And looking back against the look of Love,
I feel the old shame start again and sting;
Such eyes are Love's they will not ask the thing,
But I remember it!
So this one dream of heaven I dare not dream :
We two in your familiar ways and high.
While you and God forget, and even I
Cannot remember it!