Well do they who have felt the spectres’ hands Upon their hearts, And have not fled, but with firm faith have borne Their brothers’ parts,
Upheld the weary head, or fanned the brow Of some sick soul, Pointed the way for tired pilgrim eyes To their far goal.
So let it be with us: perchance will come In after days, The benison of happiness for us Always, always.
One more dream in the slow night watches, One more sleep when the world is dumb, And his soul leans out to the sweet wild snatches Of song that up from dreamland come.
Pale, pale face with a golden setting, Deep, deep glow of stedfast eyes; Form of one there is no forgetting, Wandering out of Paradise.
Breath of balm, and a languor falling Out of the gleam of a sunset sky; Peace, deep peace and a seraph’s calling, Folded hands and a pleading cry.
One more dream for the patient singer, Weary with songs he loved so well; Sleeping now--will the vision bring her? Hark, ‘tis the sound of the passing bell!
When shall I see thee again? Weary the years and so long; When shall be buried the wrong, Phantom-like rising between? Seeking for surcease of pain, Pilgrim to Lethe I came; Drank not, for pride was too keen-- Stung by the sound of a name.
Soft, ardent skies of my youth Come to me over the sea, Come in a vision to me, Come with your shimmer and song; Ye have known all of the truth, Witness to both shall ye bear; Read me the riddle of wrong, Solve me the cords of the snare.
Love is not won in a breath, Idle, impassioned and sure; Why should not love then endure, Challenging doubt to the last? True love is true till the death, Though it bear aloes and myrrh; Try me and judge me, O Past, Have I been true unto her?
What should I say if we met, Knowing not which should forbear? E’en if I plead would she care?-- Sweet is the refuge of scorn. Close by my side, O Regret Long we have watched for the light! Watchman, what of the morn? Well do we know of the night.
The apple blossoms glisten Within the crowned trees; The meadow grasses listen The din of busy bees; The wayward, woodland singer Carols along the leas, Not loth to be the bringer Of summer fantasies.
But you and I who never Meet now but for regret, Forever and forever, Though flower-bonds were set In Maytime, if you wonder That falling leaves are ours, Yours was it cast asunder, Mine are the faded flowers.