The precise gold of her hair, I don't remember,
I only know that meadows may be gold,
When cornfields ripen just before September
There's something of her colouring in the fold.
The precise blue of her eyes I can't recall,
But when the autumn skies break up and clear,
And all the languid leaves curl up and fall
I dream such blue and soon her eyes appear.
The silk of her voice is lost, I can't quite place it,
But come the spring when grass begins to sigh
I hear Anna, her warm voice and can trace it
Back to another spring and distant sky.
