I placed a scarlet campion flower
In the wreathed tresses of my head.
"No damosel in hall or bower
Is fairer than my love," he said.
Years after in a folded book
I found a withered campion flower;
And paled, with that swift backward look
That ghost-seers have at twilight hour.
O withered heart, O love long dead!
"Poor faded flower that shone so fair,
Well suits thy phantom bloom" (I said)
"With the white tresses of my hair."
