170
A SHEAF GLEANED
Sometimes a word, a dream, a passing thought
Effaces from your cheek the colour pale;
What marvels by a changing hue is wrought!
Why beats my heart to see the red prevail?
What makes mine eyesight fail?
Comes a caprice half-shadowed, or a whim,
And off you dart, no bird is half so shy;
I love a thought half-shadowed, doubtful, dim,
I love the place to which you bid good-bye,
And that to which you fly.
An angel, fair as you are, just the same,
Of whom the voice as tender is and true,
Who also smiles, who bears your very name,
In dreams whom often in the night I view,
I deeply love . . . . and you?
