For memories of love are more
Than the white moon there above
And dearer than quiet moonshine
Are the thoughts of her I love.
Last night I lingered long without
My last of loves to see.
Alas! the moon-white window-panes
Stared blindly back on me.
To-day I hold her very hand,
Her very waist embrace—
Like clouds across a pool, I read
Her thoughts upon her face.
And yet, as now, through her clear eyes
I seek the inner shrine—
I stoop to read her virgin heart
In doubt if it be mine—
O looking long and fondly thus,
What vision should I see?
No vision, but my own white face
That grins and mimics me.