Perhaps I have almost reached it,
For when I am walking late,
I see a shrouded stranger
Beside my postern gate;
And a sudden chill creeps o'er me
At sight of that figure grim,
For I fancy that he is waiting
For me in the twilight dim;
And I know he will one day beckon
With gesture of command,
And I shall follow him mutely.
Away to the Silent Land,
And all that I here have treasured
In fountain, and tree, and stone
Will pass to the hands of others,
Whom I have never known.
Hence over his sombre features
There flickers a ghostly smile,
As if he would say, "What matter?
Your cares are not worth while;
"The trouble which gives you anguish,
The woes o'er which you weep,
Will all be soon forgotten
In my long, dreamless sleep.
"Enjoy the fleeting moment;
I cannot always wait,
And the glow of the coming sunset
Is gilding the postern gate."
UNDINE
Spirit of Como, whose rhythmical call
Murmurs caressingly under my wall,
Why are thy feet, though the hour be late,
Mounting the moon-silvered steps of my gate?
What is the cause of this passionate strain,
Voiced by thy wavelets again and again?
Near to the lake, and surmounting the lawn,
Sculptured Undine sits facing the dawn;
White, on the rocks of the fountain below,
Glistens her form, like a statue of snow;
Smiling, she listens, entranced, to the call,
Sung so alluringly under my wall.