She sees a hand waved at a garden gate.
For her dull ears are tuned to other themes;
And her dim eyes can never see aright.
She glides—a ghost—through all her April dreams,
To meet his eyes at dawn, his lips at night.
Wraiths of a truth that others never knew;
And yet—for her—the only truth that's true.
II.
Good News! Good News! There is no way but this.
Out of the night a star begins to rise.