Robert Louis Stevenson

She rested by the Broken Brook,
She drank of Weary Well,
She moved beyond my lingering look,
Ah, whither none can tell!

She came, she went.  In other lands,
Perchance in fairer skies,
Her hands shall cling with other hands,
Her eyes to other eyes.

She vanished.  In the sounding town,
Will she remember too?
Will she recall the eyes of brown
As I recall the blue?