A Vigil

I walk the lane's dim hollow,—Past is the twilight hour,But stealthy shadows followAnd Night withholds her power,For somewhere in the eastern skyThe shrouded moon is high.

Dews from the wild rose drip unheard,—Their unforgotten scentWith that of woods and grasses blent;No muffled flight of bird,No whispering voice, my footfall stops;No breeze amid the poplar-topsThe smallest leaf has stirred.

Yet round me, here and there,A little fluttering windPlays now,—these senses have divinedA breath across my hair,—A touch,—that on my forehead lies,And presses longThese lips so mute of song,And now, with kisses cool, my half-shut eyes.

This night? O what is here!What viewless aura clingsSo fitfully, so near,On this returning eventideWhen Memory will not be deniedUnfettered wings?

My arms reach out,—in vain,—They fold the air:And yet—that wandering breath again!Too vague to make her phantom plain,Too tender for despair.

1884