Sleeping she murmured, stirred and sighed, A dream from her sleep-vision faded. Her earthly eyes 'neath languid eyelids Wakened: her bosom cried, "Come back, come back,
"Come back, my dream!" Rising she drest Her beauty's lamp with cunning fingers. She had the look of birds a-flutter Round dewy trees with breast Throbbing with song.
The clouds no more are flocking After the flushing sun; Bees end their long droning, The bat's hunt is begun; And the tired wind that went flittering Up and down the hill Lies like a shadow still, Like a shadow still.
Who is it that's calling Out of the deepening dark, Calling, calling, calling?-- No!--yet hark! The sleepy wind wakes, carrying Up and down the hill A voice how small and still, How sweet and still!
Who is it that answers Out of a quiet cloud-- "Stay, oh stay! I come, I come!" Cried at last aloud? My voice, my heart went answering Up and down the hill-- Mine so strange and still, Mine grave and still.
Rich in the waning light she sat While the fierce rain on the window spat. The yellow lamp-glow lit her face, Shadows cloaked the narrow place She sat adream in. Then she'd look Idly upon an idle book; Anon would rise and musing peer Out at the misty street and drear; Or with her loosened dark hair play, Hiding her fingers' snow away; And, singing softly, would sing on When the desire of song had gone. "O lingering day!" her bosom sighed, "O laggard Time!" each motion cried. Last she took the lamp and stood Rich in its flood, And looked and looked again at what Her longing fingers' zeal had wrought; And turning then did nothing say, Hiding her thoughts away.
Distance no grace can lend you, but for me Distance yet magnifies your mystery. With you, and soon content, I ask how should In your two eyes be hid my heaven of good? How should your own mere voice the strange words speak That tease me with the sense of what's to seek In all the world beside? How your brown hair, That simply and neglectfully you wear, Bind my wild thoughts in its abundant snare? With you, I wonder how you're stranger than Another woman to another man; But parted--and you're as a ship unknown That to poor castaways at dawn is shown As strange as dawn, so strange they fear a trick Of eyes long-vexed and hope with falseness sick. Parted, and like the riddle of a dream, Dark with rich promise, does your beauty seem. I wonder at your patience, stirless peace, Your subtle pride, mute pity's quick release. Then are you strange to me and sweet as light Or dew; as strange and dark as starless night. Then let this restless parting be forgiven: I go from you to find in you strange heaven.