Pale were your looks; and the rose in your tresses
Paler of hue than the dreams we have lost;
Who, then I said, is it sees or who guesses,
Here in the hall, that I dance with a ghost?

Gone! And the dance and the music are ended.
Gone! And the rapture dies out of the skies.
And, on my arm, in her elegance splendid,
The woman of fashion smiles up in my eyes.

Had I forgotten? and did you remember?
You, who are dead, whom I cannot forget;
You, for whose sake all my heart is an ember
Covered with ashes of dreams and regret.

Madison Cawein