Sometimes the old enchantment comes again
That long Bs a S lost since days of far away;
All unaware it comes, when I think not
Of what I see, and suddenly the scene
Is wrought once more in tenuous witchery:
The enigmatic thrill, the promise, hope,
Delight it holds as with my childish gaze.
Odd scenes: great steamers tethered to the wharves;
The westering sun beyond one certain range;
Old fussy tramps that trudge from tropic seas;
The texture of a blue midsummer's dawn . . .
When none but you has seen the young pale day.
And sights and scents and sounds that once would spell
A rapturous, ridiculous delight;
But now that Knowledge with her searing touch
Has faded into shape of Things That Be.
But yet the opal magic lingers on.
For, times the vision clouds. The glare of Now
Is softened by the gentle golden haze,
Insouciance, that glamoured other days.

—C. E. D.