I heard a sudden sighing at the door,
A soft, persuasive sighing,
And I said, “The summer breeze has sighed before,
Gustily, outside the door!”
Yet from the place I fled, nor came again,
With my heart beating, beating!
For I knew ’twas not the breeze nor the brown rain
At the door and in the lane!
Resurrection
I BURIED Joy; and early to the tomb
I came to weep—so sorrowful was I
Who had not dreamed that Joy, my Joy, could die.
I turned away, and by my side stood Joy
All glorified—ah, so ashamed was I
Who dared to dream that Joy, my Joy, could die!
The Lost Name
THE voice of my true love is low
And exquisitely kind,
Warm as a flower, cold as snow—
I think it is the Wind.
My true love’s face is white as mist
That moons have lingered on,
Yet rosy as a cloud, sun-kissed—
I think it is the Dawn.
The breath of my true love is sweet
As gardens at day’s close
When dew and dark together meet—
I think it is a Rose.
My true love’s heart is wild and shy
And folded from my sight,
A world, a star, a whispering sigh—
I think it is the Night.