Sweet water-moons, blown into lights 
Of flying gold on pool and creek, 
And many sounds and many sights 
Of younger days are back this week. 
I cannot say I sought to face 
Or greatly cared to cross again 
The subtle spirit of the place 
Whose life is mixed with Rose Lorraine. 

What though her voice rings clearly through 
A nightly dream I gladly keep, 
No wish have I to start anew 
Heart fountains that have ceased to leap. 
Here, face to face with different days, 
And later things that plead for love, 
It would be worse than wrong to raise 
A phantom far too fain to move. 

But, Rose Lorraine -- ah! Rose Lorraine, 
I'll whisper now, where no one hears -- 
If you should chance to meet again 
The man you kissed in soft, dead years, 
Just say for once "He suffered much," 
And add to this "His fate was worst 
Because of me, my voice, my touch." 
There is no passion like the first! 

If I that breathe your slow sweet name, 
As one breathes low notes on a flute, 
Have vext your peace with word of blame, 
The phrase is dead -- the lips are mute.
Yet when I turn towards the wall, 
In stormy nights, in times of rain, 
I often wish you could recall 
Your tender speeches, Rose Lorraine. 

Because, you see, I thought them true, 
And did not count you self-deceived, 
And gave myself in all to you, 
And looked on Love as Life achieved. 
Then came the bitter, sudden change, 
The fastened lips, the dumb despair. 
The first few weeks were very strange, 
And long, and sad, and hard to bear. 

No woman lives with power to burst 
My passion's bonds, and set me free; 
For Rose is last where Rose was first, 
And only Rose is fair to me. 
The faintest memory of her face, 
The wilful face that hurt me so, 
Is followed by a fiery trace 
That Rose Lorraine must never know. 

I keep a faded ribbon string 
You used to wear about your throat; 
And of this pale, this perished thing, 
I think I know the threads by rote. 
God help such love! To touch your hand, 
To loiter where your feet might fall, 
You marvellous girl, my soul would stand 
The worst of hell -- its fires and all! 

by Henry Kendall
Austalian poet 1839~1882

"Another one of my favourites....the woman subject to this poem was Rose Bennett,
with whom he had been in love with before he married his wife, Charlotte, in 1868.  They were said to be engaged though they parted after a quarrel.   Rose very obviously broke
his heart, and seems to have been one of fiery temper....
though one never forgets their first love."