Clark Ashton Smith

This I remember clearly: from stone to stepping-stone
I bore you in my arms across the quiet stream. . . .
And yet I know not where nor when; nor whether in dream
It was, or in some former land, or land foreknown.

Willows there were, and leaves and flowers of arrowhead,
And the tall reeds that lifted up their bronzy maces. . . .
Yet in what place among the long-forgotten places?
Or in what untold year, or year of ages sped?

What chanceful magic brings this moment back to me,
Or calls it from the murk and mist of worlds unborn?—
A burst of sun on Lethe boundless and forlorn,
A narrow circle of noon where else is mystery.

This I remember only, belovèd, that it was you
I held with tender care and loving arms that yearned:
Your breasts were light upon my heart; your tresses burned
Between the nameless heavens and nameless waters blue.

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