AT twilight here I sit alone,
Yet not alone; for thoughts of thee,—
Pale images of pleasure flown,—
Like homing birds, once more return to me.
Again the shining chestnut braids
Are soft enwreathed about thy brow,
And light—a light that never fades—
Beams from thine eyes upon me even now,
As, all undimmed by death and night,
Remembrance out of distance brings
Thy youthful loveliness, alight
With ardent hope and high imaginings.
Ah, mortal dreams, how fair, how fleet!
Thy yearnings scant fulfilment found;
Dark Lethe long hath laved thy feet,
And on thy slumber breaks no troubling sound;
Yet distance parts thee not from me,
For beauty—or of twilight or of morn—
Binds me, still closer binds, to thee,
Whose heart sang to my heart ere I was born.