A VIGIL
And presses long
These lips so mute of song,
And now, with kisses cool, my half-shut eyes.
This night? O what is here!
What viewless aura clings
So fitfully, so near,
On this returning eventide
When Memory will not be denied
Unfettered wings?
My arms reach out,—in vain,—
They fold the air:
And yet—that wandering breath again!
Too vague to make her phantom plain,
Too tender for despair.
1884
33
