I thought of the dress that she wore last time, When we stood neath the cypress-trees together, In that lost land, in that soft clime, In the crimson evening weather; Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot); And her warm white neck in its golden chain; And her full soft hair just tied in a knot, And falling loose again. And the Jasmine flower in her fair young breast; (O the faint sweet smell of that Jasmine flower!) And the one bird singing alone to its nest; And the one star over the tower. I thought of our little quarrels and strife, And the letter that brought me back my ring; And it all seemed there in the waste of life, Such a very little thing. For I thought of her grave below the hill, Which the sentinel cypress-tree stands over; And I thought, "Were she only living still, How I could forgive her and love her!" And I swear as I thought of her thus in that hour, And of how, after all, old things are best, That I smelt the smell of that Jasmine flower Which she used to wear in her breast. And I turned and looked; she was sitting there, In a dim box over the stage; and drest In that muslin dress, with that full soft hair, And that Jasmine in her breast! I was here, and she was there; And the glittering horse-shoe curved between;-- From my bride betrothed, with her raven hair And her sumptuous scornful mien, To my early love with her eyes downcast, And over her primrose face the shade, (In short from the future back to the past) There was but a step to be made. To my early love from my future bride One moment I looked, then I stole to the door, I traversed the passage; and down at her side I was sitting a moment more. My thinking of her or the music's strain, Or something which never will be expressed, Had brought her back from the grave again, With the Jasmine in her breast. She is not dead, and she is not wed! But she loves me now and she loved me then! And the very first words that her sweet lips said, My heart grew youthful again. The Marchioness there, of Carabas, She is wealthy and young and handsome still, And but for her ... well, we'll let that pass; She may marry whomever she will. But I will marry my own first love, With her primrose face, for old things are best; And the flower in her bosom, I prize it above The brooch in my lady's breast. The world is filled with folly and sin, And love must cling where it can, I say, For beauty is easy enough to win, But one isn't loved every day. And I think in the lives of most women and men, There's a moment when all would go smooth and even, If only the dead could find out when To come back and be forgiven.