Always it was the same—always the same;
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I called—she heeded not; my heart ached on;
Then to my side, without a word, she came,
Sat with me, and, without a word, was gone:
All my poor supplication was in vain,
And my life stopped until she came again.
Once, a whole summer day beneath the trees,
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I drank her beauty with my famished eyes,
My head at peace upon her quiet knees;
The rustle of her gown was Paradise:
An altar stands for ever in the place
Where once all day I looked into her face.
And then a year went by, nor sight, nor word,
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Had I to live on whose whole life was she,
Till, like the sudden singing of a bird
Once more she came, and stood and smiled on me,
And took a little pity on my drouth,
Lifting to me the mercy of her mouth.
One night she came—the stars were in her hair—
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She took my head, and kissed it into rest,
And then the moon rose, white and unaware,
The moon—or did I dream it was her breast?
I think no moon that ever walked the night,
Nor any lily, was ever half so white.
Then came a hush of days like none before,
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A distance echoing and full of dread,
That seemed to tell me she would come no more,
A frozen whisper saying she was dead;
Yet I, whose life she is, and so well knew
Her silent ways, would not believe it true.
Nor will I yet—for ever was it so,
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Silent so long—so long—would she remain,
Then like a spirit softly come and go:
So, on a sudden, shall she come again,
Step, silver-footed, out of the still air,
Finger on lip—for me to follow her.