The Young Beauty

My two old neighbours come along the lane
Tucking their sober skirts up from the grass;—
"To see her you see April in a glass;
She is the quince bough blowing at your pane."
From village houses in a windy line;—
"The folk in church have scarce the wit to pray;
Her looks drift in between each word they say.—"
But ah, I know a lovelier face was mine!
Beauty indeed is but the flower of quince;—
(And who so well as I should know this thing?)
Blown out of mind as out the white tree nigh,
And down the dusty levels of Long Since.
Blown out of mind. There is no second spring;—
For ah, I know a lovelier face had I!